Library  of 
The  University  of  North  Carolina 


COLLECTION  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINIANA 


ENDOWED  BY 
JOHN  SPRUNT  HILL 

of  the  Class  of  1889 


)< 


(^  %v"i>- W  ^*^"^^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00017475554 


r 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO 
WEEKS  ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine 
of  FIVE  CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  was 
taken  out  on  the  day  indicated  below: 


8IVIar'29l\(' 


--Y— ---_ 


^t(oa 


GENA 

of  the 

APPALACHIANS 


By 

CLARENCE  MONROE  WALLIN 


Cochrane  Publishing  Company 

Tribune  Building 

New  York 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
Clarence  Monroe  Wallin 


/ 


To  Alma,  my  wife,  and  the  thousands  of  other  noble 
daughters  of  the  great  Appalachian  country. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

If,  in  the  lines  of  this  humble  narrative,  the  reader 
should  find  anything  of  truth;  anything  of  uplift;  any- 
thing of  human  life,  then  the  author  shall  have  been  fully 
repaid  for  the  time  employed  in  writing  it. 

Clarence  Monroe  Wallin. 


Gena  of  the  Appalachians 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Burial  of  Lucky  Joe 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  cold  winter's  day 
when  they  sent  for  him  to  go  and  perform  the  last  sad 
rites  at  the  burial  of  Lucky  Joe. 

Lucky  Joe  had  outstripped  the  law  in  his  crimes  for 
more  than  forty  years— hence  the  people  had  well  dubbed 
him  ''Lucky."     For  more  than  three  decades  his  name 
had  been  the  synonym  of   dread  and   fear  among  the 
people  of  the  hills.    He  had  at  length  whipped  them  into 
granting  him  whatever  he  exacted  of  them,  whether  the 
thing  in  itself  was  right  or  wrong.     But  one  memorable 
day,  the  tardy  finger  of  the  law  apprehended  him,  and 
he  stood  up  before  the  bar  of  Justice  and  heard  the 
court  pronounce,  "Joseph  Filson,  guilty!"     Quickly  he 
was  ushered  away  to  the  penitentiary — down  to  a  South- 
ern jail  and  to  hard  and  endless  toil  for  the  remainder 
of  his  life.     The  gates  of  the  prison  closed  and  locked 
their  iron  jaws  behind  him:  his  keeper  P.dmonished  him 
to  be  obedient,  and  he  immediately  chose  to  work  at  the 
blacksmith's  forge.    Day  after  day,  he  swung  the  sledge 
in  silence.    Then  the  days  crowded  into  months  and  into 
years,  but  he  pounded  away  at  the  anvil  unmindful  of 
the  end.     Finally  death  came  and  knocked  at  the  door 
of  his  narrow  cell  and  took  him  away. 

The  news  of  the  great  outlaw's  death  flashed  back  to 
the  hills,  and  horse  and  rider  took  up  the  message  and 


8  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

sped  over  the  peaks  and  down  into  the  narrow  gorges  to 
tell  the  mountain  folk  of  the  end.  Many  a  mountain 
mother  and  son  ran  out  to  the  roadside  to  meet  the  rider, 
and  received  the  news  with  gladness.  Men  and  boys 
gathered  in  groups  about  the  forks  of  the  roads  and 
doubted  that  it  could  be  true.  But,  when  the  remains 
were  forwarded  to  the  railroad  station  nearest  the  moun- 
tain home,  doubt  and  distrust  gave  way  to  the  evidence, 
and  all  were  satisfied. 

"No,  he  wouldn't  come,"  said  the  man  at  the  gate.  He 
sat  there,  on  his  horse  and  fumbled  at  the  horn  of  his 
saddle  for  more  than  a  minute,  all  the  while  trying  to  find 
words  with  which  to  make  further  known  his  mission. 

"I  say,  thet  we  took  'im  to  the  schoolhouse  yisterday. 
but  the  preacher  wouldn't  come.  Don't  think  thet  he 
wanted  to  come  nohow,  cause  you  see,  Lucky  wuz  alius 
a  purty  bad  man.  But  we've  brot  'im  back  to  the  school 
house  today,  an'  we  want  to  put  'im  away  nice,  an'  as 
we  knowed  that  you  wuz  here,  we'd  like  to  git  you  to 
come.  We  knowed  thet  you  wuz  not  a  preacher,  but  thet 
you  wuz  a  kinder  public  Sunday-school  speaker — an'  we 
want  to  put  'im  away  nice — an'  like  to  git  you  to  come." 

Paul  Waffington  saddled  his  horse  and  led  him  out 
into  the  deep  snow,  mounted,  and  followed  the  stranger 
out  into  the  storm.  The  way  was  dangerous,  but  the 
two  men  picked  their  way  along  the  mountain  pass  as 
best  they  could.  The  roar  and  the  fury  of  the  storm 
increased  as  they  went,  and  the  cold  wind  cut  like  the 
blade  of  a  knife.  Many  times  they  were  forced  to  lie 
down  in  the  saddle  with  their  heads  against  their  horses' 
necks  to  protect  themselves  from  the  cutting  sleet  and 
driving  snow. 

True  enough,  the  man  had  said  at  the  gate  that  Paul 
Waffington  was  not  a  preacher.  Nor  was  he  engaged 
in  any  preparations  to  that  end.     But  choosing  to  re- 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  9 

main  a  layman,  the  Sunday-schcol  and  the  children  were 
the  direct  objects  of  his  Christian  activities/  But  when 
some  human  heart  was  sore  and  duty  called,  he  responded 
without  a  murmur.  Hence  throughout  the  blinding  storm 
of  this  winter  day  he  rode  with  the  stranger  to  the  burial 
of  Lucky  Joe. 

Despite  the  midwinter  storm  that  was  raging^  he  found 
the  little  school  house  overflowing  with  the  people  of  the 
hills.  Great  bunches  of  mountaineers  stood  about  in 
the  deep  snow,  on  the  outside,  while  the  house  was 
crowded  to  the  door  with  thinly  clad  mothers  bearing 
in  their  arms  their  children.  All  had  come,  alike,  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  face  of  the  dead  man  whose  name,  to 
them,  had  been  born  of  destruction. 

All  the  family  were  there.  The  two  young  sons  sat 
on  the  front  seat  with  ruined  hopes.  The  little  daughter 
was  there  alongside  the  brothers,  clinging  to  them  in 
grief;  mother  was  there  by  the  side  of  the  children,  and 
father  was  there — in  the  casket. 

It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  Paul  Waffington  made 
his  way  through  the  throng,  to  the  front.  It  had  not 
been  his  lot  to  meet  with  Lucky  Joe  during  his  lifetime. 
But  now,  as  he  approaches  the  platform,  he  turns  and 
looks  into  the  casket.  He  beholds  the  face  of  an  old 
man — past  sixty  years — with  pinched  features  and  a 
long^  white  beard,  with  deep  lines  in  his  face  that  the 
chisel  of  sin  had  hewn  v/ith  no  uncertain  hand. 

With  a  warning  to  the  living  and  words  of  comfort 
for  the  bereaved  the  little  service  closed.  For  hours 
during  the  blustering  day  strong  men  had  worked  at  the 
grave.  Rough,  uncouth  mountaineers,  many  of  whom 
had  hated  and  feared  the  dead  man  during  his  lifetime, 
dug  up  the  frozen  earth  and  rock  in  perfect  silence.  It 
mattered  not  to  them  now,  whether  he  had  been  a  friend 
or  an  enemy  during  his  lifetime,  their  respect  now  was 


/ 


/ 

/ 


10         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

for  the  dead.  The  infalHble  rule  of  the  gentle  people  of 
the  Appalachian  hills  is  to  respect  and  honor  the  dead, 
friend  and  foe  alike,  and  to  "let  the  dead  rest  in  peace ;" 
therefore,  when  their  feet  on  this  sad  day  became  be- 
numbed and  stiff  with  cold,  there  was  not  a  murmur  from 
any  lip  or  rest  from  any  stroke  until  the  grave  was 
finished. 

Kind  hands  laid  away  the  remains  of  Lucky  Joe. 
Strong  men  braved  the  winter's  gale  and  did  their  part 
well.  When  the  last  shovelful  of  half  snow  and  half 
frozen  earth  had  been  placed  upon  the  mound,  the  people 
gathered  themselves  together  by  families  and  dispersed 
in  silence.  Paul  Waffington  lingered  and  comforted  the 
mother  and  the  two  sons.  Then  he  took  the  beautiful 
hand  of  the  little  daughter  Gena  and  held  it  as  he  ten- 
derly spoke  a  few  words  to  her.  Her  big  blue  eyes 
looked  up  through  the  hot  tears  wishfully  at  him  as  he 
finished : 

"Good-bye,  now.  And  be  a  good  little  girl.  I  will 
come  back,  perhaps.  And  if — if  I  come  back,  I  will  come 
to  see  you  and  bring  you  a  pretty  book.  Don't  forget 
now.  Good-bye,"  and  he  patted  her  on  the  head  as  he 
turned  to  go. 

The  storm  increased  its  fury  and  night  came  on  as 
death  comes — swift  and  sure.  Then,  with  a  heavy  heart 
and  a  picture  in  his  mind  that  shall  grow  plainer  and 
brighter  as  the  years  go  by,  Paul  Wafifington  mounted 
his  horse  and  went  out  into  the  night  towards  his  own 
place. 


CHAPTER   II 
The   Hamlet   Blood   Camp 

Far  away  from  the  great  press  of  population  and  the 
busy  throngs,  in  that  part  of  the  beautiful  Appalachian 
country,  better  known  to  the  tourist  as  "The  Land  of  the 
Sky,"  in  the  very  evening  shadows  of  Mt.  Mitchell  itself, 
the  mighty  Snake  Hfts  its  domes.  Standing  alone  and 
a  little  above  the  surrounding  mountains,  with  its  sharp 
peaks  pushed  up  into  the  eternal  blue  a  little  more  than 
six  thousand  feet,  it  has  for  fifty  years  smiled  down  upon 
a  Httle  hamlet  at  its  base,  and  that  hamlet  is  Blood  Camp. 

A  dozen  weatherbeaten  houses,  an  unpretentious  store, 
post-office  and  blacksmith  shop  was  Blood  Camp  fifty 
years  ago.  With  few  changes,  a  few  faces  missing,  and 
a  proportionate  increase  in  the  number  of  graves  in  the 
little  chestnut  grove  on  the  hill.  Blood  Camp  is  about 
the  same  today.  In  fact,  it  had  been  freely  circulated 
*'out  in  the  world,"  as  Granny  Green  would  say,  by  a 
commercial  traveler,  that  Blood  Camp  was  finished.  For 
three  decades  he  had  traveled  through  the  hamlet,  and 
during  the  time  had  failed  to  hear  the  sound  of  a  saw  or 
a  hammer, — hence  it  must  be  a  '"finished"  town. 

However,  that  may  be,  there  had  been  some  wonderful 
changes  in  the  Hfe  of  Blood  Camp  since  the  death  of 
Lucky  Joe.  Immediately  following  the  burial  of  Lucky 
Joe,  there  had  been  organized  the  Sunday-school  in 
the  school  house  by  Waffington,  who  put  the  school  in 
the  hands  of  a  faithful  few  and  departed.  At  the  end 
of  the  year,  a  freshly  made  grave  that  lay  along  by  the 
side  of  Lucky  Joe's  told  the  story  of  the  mother's  broken 


12         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

heart  and  death.  The  two  sons  disposed  of  all  the  things 
that  could  be  found,  saw  their  little  sister  Gena  bound  out 
to  old  Jase  Dillenburger,  and  departed  for  the  West.  Old 
Granny  Green,  fortune-teller,  conjurer  and  real  local 
paper,  had  recently  been  found  dead  near  her  pigsty. 
Some  of  the  careless  ones  of  the  neighborhood  had  said 
that  'Tt  was  sint  on  'er.  Beca'se  she  kept  bitin'  dawgs, 
an'  dawged  peoples  hogs  all  'er  life." 

Lately  the  constable  with  his  deputies  had  come  up 
from  the  lower  settlements  and  locked  up  the  little  store 
by  order  of  its  creditors.  The  people  considered  this 
the  greatest  blow  of  all  to  the  neighborhood.  For  twenty 
years  the  dilapidated  store  had  stood  on  the  state  line, 
half  in  Tennessee  and  half  in  North  Carolina,  with  an 
open  door  for  all  Blood  Camp.  The  same  lean  and 
hungry  face  of  Slade  Pemberton,  the  store-keeper,  had 
for  a  score  of  years  looked  across  the  box-lid  counter, 
and  dispensed  to  the  natives  brown  sugar,  coffee,  tobacco, 
snuff  and  ''plow  pints."  The  store  had  been  the  undis- 
puted meeting-place  for  all  Blood  Camp  for  years. 
Hence  they  found  it  hard  to  give  up  their  old  resort. 
But  since  the  officers  of  the  law  had  closed  and  locked 
the  door,  the  fathers  of  Blood  Camp  resignedly  retreated 
to  the  shade  of  the  big  apple  tree  by  the  blacksmith  shop, 
there  to  play  marbles  and  engage  in  idle  talk  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays.  Old  Jase  Dillenburger  had  openly 
rebelled  against  the  closing  of  the  store.  He  had  been 
the  bosom  companion  of  Lucky  Joe,  and  together  they 
had  "moonshined"  at  night  and  quietly  disposed  of  the 
whiskey  at  the  store  during  the  day, — hence  the  reason 
that  old  Jase  liked  to  linger  around  the  store.  In  the 
event  that  an  officer  from  Tennessee  tried  to  serve  a 
warrant  on  him,  he  went  into  the  North  Carolina  end 
of  the  store,  and  vici  versa.     But  the  new  rendezvous 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  13 

at  the  blacksmith  shop  was  situated  wholly  in  Tennessee, 
which  fact  made  old  Jase  a  little  uneasy. 

''Don't  like  this  changen  bizness  much,"  he  growled, 
as  he  came  up  under  the  apple  tree  and  took  his  place 
with  the  others.  "Gimme  a  chaw  terbacker,  Fen  Green," 
he  continued.  Then  biting  off  a  large  piece  from  the 
offered  tobacco  and  handing  it  back  he  finished,  "Heve 
you  put  up  any  rocks  to  your  mammy's  grave  yet,  Fen? 
You  orter  tend  to  it.  Fen,  'fore  you  fergit  it.  Some 
didn't  like  yer  mammy — some  sed  she  talked  too  much, 
but  I  liked  her — an'  you  ort  to  tend  to  it  'fore  you  fergit 
it,  Fen." 

"Think  maby  I  will,  Jase,"  replied  Fenton  Green. 
"How's  Genie  a-gitten  along,  Jase?  How's  she  a-liken 
her  new  home  by  this  time?" 

"Oh,  she'  nearly  tickled  to  deth  to  git  to  live  with  me 
an'  Ann.  You  know,  Fen,  thet  we  haint  got  no  children 
nor  nothin'  to  bother,  an'  she's  smart  too.  Fen.  Why, 
she  haint  but  thirteen  agoin  on  fourteen,  an'  she  can 
bild  fires,  an'  cut  wood,  an'  milk,  an'  drag  fodder,  an' 
cook — an'  I  left  her  a-cuttin'  wood  when  I  come  down 
here  this  mornin'.  Oh,  she's  a  fine  gal,  an'  you  look 
sharp  now.  Fen.  Of  course  she  takes  a  few  spells 
a-cryin'  an'  awantin'  to  go  to  them  dang  brothers  away 
out  yander  in  the  West.  But  I  knock  that  out  with 
about  three  licks,  an'  she's  all  right  agin.  FU  make  a 
woman  outen  her,  Fen,  I  will.  Lucky  an'  her  mammy 
is  both  gone.  Course  we  can't  help  thet.  An'  them  two 
boys  is  gone,  an'  Fm  dang  glad  they  aire.  Genie  will  be 
fourteen  nex'  spring,  an'  a  mighty  fine  hand  she'll  make 
next  summer  with  a  corn-hoe  in  my  new-ground  field 
up  yander  under  the  peak.  An'  another  thing.  Fen. 
She's  got  a  mighty  good  home,  ef  I  do  say  so  myself." 

The  marble  game  ended.  The  heavy  shadows  of  night 
began  to  hang  under  the  peaks  of  the  mighty  Snake,  and 


14         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

the  crowd  dispersed.  After  the  others  had  gone,  old 
Jase  arose,  ran  his  huge  fingers  through  his  red  mop, 
stretched  his  great  Hmbs,  and  looked  up  the  mountain- 
side towards  his  home.  Then  giving  a  last  stroke  to  his 
woolly  red  beard,  he  began  the  ascent. 

Hundreds  of  nights  had  been  spent  by  Lucky  and  old 
Jase  in  the  moonshining  business.  In  a  little  secret  cove 
upon  the  side  of  the  mighty  Snake,  Lucky  would  keep  the 
still  going  while  old  Jase  with  his  rifle  kept  the  watch 
for  the  government  raiders.  But  since  the  imprisonment 
of  Lucky  Joe,  and  finally  his  death,  the  old  still  up  in 
the  cove  had  been  idle  for  a  long  time.  There  was  not 
another  man  in  all  Blood  Camp  that  old  Jase  Dillen- 
burger  was  willing  to  take  in  partnership.  But  the 
smell  of  the  mash  in  his  nose  and  the  longing  for  the 
old  business  had  led  him  lately  to  resume  the  operation 
of  the  still  alone. 

This  very  night  we  see  him  slowly  climbing  up  the 
mountainside  towards  his  home.  The  eye  follows  him 
through  the  twilight  as  he  slowly  ascends.  But  before 
the  eye  can  wink  again,  he  quickly  turns  to  the  left  and 
is  lost  in  the  woods.  No  human  eye  sees  him  as  he 
emerges  from  between  two  huge  boulders  just  under  the 
dome  of  the  mighty  Snake,  and  drops  down  into  the 
little  cove  by  the  still.  He  begins  his  operations  for 
the  night,  moving  about  with  apparent  ease.  Removing 
the  burlap  covering  from  the  still  and  brushing  aside 
the  dead  leaves  which  had  been  spread  in  heaps  over 
the  coverings  as  a  blind,  he  proceeded  to  build  a  fire 
under  the  copper  boiler  with  great  satisfaction. 

"Pale  moon  tonight,"  he  drawled  out  as  he  walked 
over  to  his  gun,  and  again  examining  the  magazine  be- 
fore replacing  it  against  the  oak.  Taking  a  small  keg 
from  the  hollow  of  a  moss-covered  log,  he  pulled  out 
the  corncob  stopper,  placed  in  the  hole  a  funnel  filled 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  15 

with  charcoal,  and  put  it  in  place  under  the  end  of  the 
worm.  Hours  dragged  slowly  away  as  the  still  boiled. 
Old  Jase  sat  at  t1:e  base  of  a  giant  oak,  with  his  gun 
across  his  lap,  staring  into  the  furnace  of  fire,  thinking, 
reflecting.  Just  now  he  was  reviewing  some  of  the  grew- 
some  scenes  of  the  past  that  he  knew  so  well.  Yes,  there 
was  the  first  hold-up  that  Lucky  Joe  and  he  had  ever 
made.  It  was  the  stage  filled  with  summer  guests  for 
Blowing  Rock.  How  clear  tonight  is  the  voice  of  the 
lady  from  Pennsylvania  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  as  she 
begged  and  pleaded  with  him — but  he  struck  her  down 
with  the  others.  Then  the  bullet  that  went  through  his 
leg !  Drawing  up  his  leg  he  put  his  hand  on  the  scar  for 
the  thousandth  time  as  he  growled  out : 

"Not  well  yit.  Never  has  healed  up  jist  right,  noway. 
Mighty  sore  and  tender  yit  fur  twenty  year  healin'" — 
then  he  went  on  with  his  thoughts. 

It  was  old  Jase  in  the  first  place  that  had  suggested 
to  Lucky  Joe  that  they  engage  in  the  hazardous  business 
of  moonshining  whiskey.  It  was  old  Jase  who  laid  the 
plan  for  the  hold-up  of  the  stage.  In  fact,  his  cunning 
brain  had  laid  the  plans  for  all  the  heinous  crimes  that 
had  been  attributed  to  the  Blood  Camp  folks.  Yet  the 
fingers  of  the  law  had  failed  to  apprehend  him  and  take 
hold  upon  him. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  pulling  himself  up  with  the  aid 
of  his  gun  and  peering  about,  "Joe's  gone.  The  ol' 
woman's  gone.  Them  dang  boys  is  gone,  an'  I'm  mighty 
glad  they  aire.  Nobody  left  to  do  nothin'  but  me.  I'm 
agettin'  too  ol'  to  steal  corn  an'  pack  up  this  mountain 
to  this  still.  I  guess  thet  I'll  have  to  quit — still'en." 
He  stood  by  the  little  furnace  and  looked  long  into  the 
dying  fire,  then  continued,  "Ef  thet  Genie  wern't  agettin 
almost  too  big  to  manage  in  a  bizness  like  still'en,  I'd 
make  her  keep  the  fire  agoin'  under  this  still  every  night 


16  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

while  I  kept  the  watch.  Ef  she  wuz  jist  a  leetle  younger, 
ef  she  wuz  jist  a  leetle  younger!  Well,  she's  mine  by 
law,  an'  I'll  make'er  do  it  yit.  She's  g^t-  to  do  as  I  say — 
I'll  mak'er  do  it  yit !" 

He  went  to  the  side  of  the  big  oak,  made  a  hasty  ob- 
serv^ation  and  saw  that  a  new  day  was  now  at  hand.  He 
hurriedly  threw  a  little  damp  earth  into  the  furnace  to 
make  sure  that  the  fire  would  go  out,  leplaced  the  cov- 
erings on  the  still,  returned  the  keg  to  its  place  in  the 
hollow  log,  and  made  for  home. 


CHAPTER   III 
The    Gathering    Clouds 

Immediately  after  the  burial  of  Lucky  Joe,  Paul 
Waffington  had  seized  the  opportunity,  when  all  Blood 
Camp  was  seriously  reflecting  upon  the  frailities  of  hu- 
man life,  and  organized  a  Sunday-school  in  the  little 
school  house.  The  superintendent,  Miss  Emeline  Hobbs, 
had  promised  to  faithfully  stand  by  the  little  school  and 
keep  the  spark  of  life  going  until  the  end  of  the  year, 
when  Paul  Waffington  had  promised  to  return. 

Miss  Emeline  Hobbs  was  rather  large,  with  stringy 
red  hair  and  possessed  a  deep  bass  voice.  She  had  been 
born  a  cripple  and  walked  on  a  wooden  peg.  But  a  kinder 
or  better  human  heart  never  beat  than  her's.  During  the 
long  winter  and  throughout  the  hot  summer  she,  with  a 
fevv^  others,  had  kept  the  spark  of  life  going  in  the  little 
school.  Each  Sunday  morning  she  went  to  the  little 
school  house,  arranged  the  three  classes,  balanced  her- 
self on  the  wooden  peg  and  proceeded  in  a  profound  way 
to  explain  and  "teach  the  Scriptures  as  I  understand 
them"  to  the  little  band. 

Aside  from  the  Sunday-school,  there  had  been  but  one 
other  new  thing  that  stirred  Blood  Camp  during  the 
year,  and  that  v/as  the  coming  of  the  old  fiddler.  Yes, 
he  came.  It  was  just  about  the  middle  of  the  summer, 
or  "corn-hoeing  time,"  as  Fen  Green  would  say,  that 
the  old  fiddler  came.  Nobody  seemed  to  know  whence 
he  came  nor  did  anybody  care,  so  long  as  he  would  be 
sociable  with  the  "boys"  and  play  "Old  Dan  Tucker," 
"Shortening   in    the    Bread,"    "Cripple    Creek,"    "Eliza 


IS  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

Jane,,"  "Shady  Grove"  and  a  half  score  of  other  similar 
tunes.  He  had  told  the  people  at  the  store  that  his  name 
was  Bull  Jones,  and  that  he  was  an  old  worn-out  man — 
an  old  mem.ber  of  a  marine  band,  and  that  he  had  once 
had  a  brown  stone  front  in  the  greatest  city  of  the  world. 
But,  ah,  temptation  had  come,  and  nothing  was  left  but 
his  dear  old  fiddle.  He  said  that  his  home  was  now 
wherever  his  hat  was  on  his  head.  This  was  too  much 
for  the  fathers  of  Blood  Camp,  and  with  no  further 
investigation  they  took  him  in  to  their  homes.  He  was 
the  center  of  attraction  at  the  store.  Hours  at  a  time  he 
sat  on  a  coffee  bag  in  the  store  playing  the  tunes  as  called 
for  by  the  boys. 

"Greatest  fiddler  I  ever  saw,  an'  I  guess  the  greatest 
'ne  thet  enybody  else  ever  saw,"  exclaimed  Fen  Green. 

Sometimes  the  old  fiddler  went  home  with  a  farmer 
of  the  hills  for  the  night.  On  the  morning  he  would  go 
with  the  others  to  the  field,  and  pay  for  his  keep  with 
the  hoe.  Another  night  he  went  with  the  blacksmith 
and  made  himself  "handy"  with  the  milking  and  other 
chore  work,  as  pay  for  his  night's  lodging.  He  was 
always  happy,  lodged  with  all,  made  a  good  workman  at 
whatever  was  needed  to  be  done,  and,  best  of  all,  he 
could  always  be  depended  upon  to  play  the  fiddle,  and  to 
play  the  very  tune  that  each  individual  liked  best. 

Bull  Jones  looked  to  be  a  man  of  some  fifty  years.  He 
wore  a  grey  beard,  a  suit  of  well-worn  clothes  with 
patches,  and  chewed  tobacco  and  "swapped"  with  the 
boys.  Bull  Jones,  the  fiddler,  was  soon  in  great  de- 
mand in  the  settlement.  The  fact  is,  that  he  had  not 
been  in  the  neighborhood  a  fortnight  until  he  had  more 
invitations  to  "stay  all  night"  than  he  was  able  to  fill  for 
months. 

On  rainy  days  the  fiddler  took  his  place  on  the  bag 
of  coffee  in  the  store  and  played  the  whole  day  through. 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  19 

Those  were  great  days  for  the  folks  of  Blood  Camp. 
Even  old  Jase  Dillenburger  would  hang  about  and 
whittle  on  a  pine  stick  and  enjoy  the  music  with  the 
others.  Then,  too,  perchance,  Miss  Emeline  Hobbs 
would  come  into  the  store  when  some  such  tune  as 
"Sourwood  Mountain"  had  begun,  and  would  fain  have 
thumped  her  wooden  peg  against  the  floor  a  few  times 
out  of  sheer  delight,  had  not  she  recalled  that  she  was 
the  superintendent  of  the  Sunday-school  and  thereby  the 
leader  and  example  of  the  community. 

Winter  had  come  again,  and  Emeline  Hobbs  longed  for 
the  day  when  Paul  Waffington  would  return,  that  she 
might  tell  him  that  she  had  ''held  out"  in  the  matter  of 
the  Sunday-school.  The  expected  time  of  his  visit  was 
passing  by,  and  hope  gave  way  to  fear  and  she  gave 
it  up. 

'TVe  give  him  out,"  she  said  as  she  sat  down.  "Don't 
think  he's  comin'  back.  I've  'splained  every  Scripture 
over  four  times — every  one  that  I  can  think  of,  an*  I 
jist  don't  know  no  more  (but  mind  that  you  don't  tell 
anybody  that  I  said  so,  Aunt  Mina).  I  was  athinken' 
that  I'd  begin  on  Jonah  next  Sunday,  if  he  didn't  come. 
I  need  a  new  start,  somehow.  If  I  just  had  a  new  start! 
I  could  run  fine  for  'nother  year,  if  I  just  had  a  new 
start!" 

"Now,  Miss  Emeline,  doan't  you  pester  yo'self  'bout 
'im  comin'  anymo'.  He's  acomin'.  He's  acomin'  whin 
he  said  he  would.  He'll  be  he'ar  an'  do'an  you  bothar 
'bout  it  any  mo'.  Lordy  bless  yo',  honey,  dat  man  is  a 
plum  po're  gentleman,  he  is.  Yo'  jist  go  on  holden'  dat 
Sunday-skule  an'  akeepin'  it  agoin'.  An'  my  o'le  black 
man,  Laz,  he'll  keep  yo'  fires  agoin'  jes'  like  he  promi'se." 

It  was  the  voice  of  good  Aunt  Mina,  the  old  black 
woman  of  the  village. 


20  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

*'But  he  ain't  acomin',  taint  no  use,"  persisted  Emeline. 

"Now,  honey,  yo'  jes  Hs'en  he'ar.  Yo'  go  right  on  an' 
tell  'em  Jonah  next  Sunday.  Dat's  good.  I  like  dat 
m'self.  I  tell  yo'  he's  acomin'.  Here,  Laz,  yo'  poke  de 
fire  an'  put  on  some  mo'  bark.  Jis'  fo'  mo'  sheets  an' 
three  dresses,  an'  I'll  git  yo'  supper,  Laz — best  o'le  neg- 
ger  man  ebber  lived !  Yess'um  I'll  have  yo'  iron'on'  done 
by  fo'  o'clock  fo'  yo'.  Miss  Emeline,  I'll  have  it  done 
by  dat  time  sure.  Now  he's  acomin',  an'  do'an  yo'  pester 
yo'self  'bout  it  no  mo'." 

True  to  his  promise  to  Emeline  Hobbs  and  Gena  Fil- 
son,  Paul  Waffington  went  back  to  Blood  Camp.  His 
first  promise  had  been  to  Gena  Filson — to  visit  her  in 
her  mountain  home.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  walked  up  in  front  of  the  little  cabin  that'  had  been 
the  home  of  Lucky  Joe.  He  drew  up  by  the  gate  and 
called  out  loudly,  but  no  response.  He  called  again  and 
again,  but  heard  only  the  echo  of  his  own  words  in  an- 
swer.   Again  and  again  he  called,  but  all  was  silent. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Filson,  not  at  home.  Poor  woman !  Per- 
haps she  had  gone  to  make  her  home  with  some  distant 
relative,"  he  said  sorrowfully.  Then  hailing  a  passing 
mountain  youth,  he  asked: 

"Where  are  the  people  who  live  here?" 

"Nobody  lives  there,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Where  are  the  people  who  did  live  here?"  he  again 
asked. 

"Don't  know.  They're  gone.  Some  dead — some  gone 
off." 

He  turned  in  at  the  little  gate,  and  as  he  approached 
the  house  he  noted  that  everything  about  it  went  to 
prove  that  it  was  fast  crumbling  back  to  mother  dust. 
There  was  no  inviting  gateway,  no  fence  now — in  fact, 
nothing  to  keep  out  even  the  unwary  intruder.  The 
wild  flowers   and  vines  that  had  voluntarily  entwined 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS         21 

their  tendrils  about  the  doorway  in  the  budding  spring- 
time had  drooped  their  feeble,  thirsty  heads  and  died, 
and  in  tliis  late  November  afternoon  there  remained  of 
them  little  more  than  a  memory. 

The  house  looked  as  if  it  had  been  transformed  into  a 
conference  hall  of  spooks  and  ghosts.  But,  taking  cour- 
age, he  managed  to  push  open  its  decaying  door  and  walk 
through  its  empty  chambers  with  stealthy  steps.  Within 
all  was  still  and  deathlike,  save  the  ringing  echoes  of  his 
own  footsteps  upon  the  floor.  He  looked  upon  the  walls, 
and  they  were  barren.  He  turned  to  the  little  open  win- 
dow, through  which,  no  doubt,  the  eyes  of  hope  had 
longingly  gazed  upon  the  world;  there,  too,  was  the 
fireplace,  with  its  broken  hearthstone,  where  mountain 
love  had  often  gathered  in  the  evening.  But,  lo!  their 
taper  had  burned  low  and  gone  out! 

As  Paul  Waffington  came  out  and  sat  upon  the  door- 
step of  this  deserted  mountain  home,  thoughts  came  to 
him  that  hitherto  were  foreign,  and  a  feeling  stole  over 
him  that  he  will  not  soon  forget.  He  recalled  the  face  in 
the  casket.  He  heard  again  the  cries  of  the  sweet  little 
Gena.  He  again  sees  the  mother  as  she  sobbed  and 
moaned  that  day  over  the  casket: 

**0  Joe,  dear  Joe,  dear  Joe,  I  forgive  you  all — I  for- 
give you  all." 

As  the  terribleness  of  it  all  comes  up  before  him,  and 
remembering  that  God  does  not  look  upon  sin  with  the 
least  degree  of  allowance,  his  heart  bleeds  within  him, 
and  he  would  give  worlds  were  they  his  to  give  if  it 
were  not  so. 

He  got  up  from  his  place  and  circled  the  house,  but 
no  new  discoveries  were  made.  He  took  another  look 
through  the  door,  shook  his  head  and  walked  slowly 
away. 


22  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

"A  deserted  home!"  he  said,  as  he  took  a  last  look  at 
the  house  from  the  gate.  A  friendly  bird  called  out  one 
note  from  a  tree  above.  "The  very  birds  of  the  air 
seem  to  say  it — a  deserted  home,"  he  said,  as  he  turned 
to  go  into  the  village,  with  his  hat  pulled  well  down 
over  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER     IV 
Driven  to  Endless  Toil 

In  life's  glad  morning  a  mother-bird  warbled  forth 
her  song  of  praise.  The  soft  and  tender  notes  that  she 
sang  were  sweet,  and  their  melody  told  a  story  of  love. 
The  burden  of  her  song  today  was  home,  and  she  worked 
as  she  sang.  Day  after  day  she  flew  about,  toiling  and 
building  at  the  nest  until  it  seemed  that  her  wxary  wings 
would  fail  to  bear  her  up.  The  fatigues  and  the  torrid 
heat  of  the  day  were  trying,  but  they  failed  to  rob  her 
of  her  song.  But  one  bright  day  the  task  was  done. 
Then  she  lifted  her  tiny  head  into  the  blue  above  and 
sang  were  sweet,  and  their  melody  told  a  story  of  love, 
when  the  little  birdlings  came,  how  the  mother-heart  beat 
with  rapture !  Day  after  day,  with  unfailing  strength, 
she  made  trip  after  trip  on  w^eary  wings  to  feed  the  bird- 
lings  in  the  nest.  Each  time  she  returned  and  dropped 
a  worm  into  a  hungry  mouth,  only  to  be  off  again  in 
quest  of  food  for  another.  But  when  all  are  fed  she 
takes  her  place  upon  the  bough  above  and  begins  anew 
her  song. 

She  is  singing  her  song  today  to  the  birdlings  in  the 
nest.  She  is  telling  them  that  there  is  much  sweetness 
in  life,  and  that  they  must  have  confidence.  Aye,  she 
is  telling  them  of  that  sad  day  when  mother's  wings  shall 
no  longer  bear  her  up — the  day  that  each  of  them  shall 
climb  upon  the  rim  of  the  old  home-nest,  stretch  his 
little,  tender  wings,  and  sail  away  over  life's  sea  upon 
his  own  resources. 


24         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

The  long  summer  through,  happiness  permeates  the 
nest.  The  mother-bird  sang,  she  fed^  she  cooed  and  the 
birdlings  grew  stronger.  But  one  sad  day,  ''the  snare  of 
the  fowler"  laid  low  the  mother-bird  and  destroyed  the 
nest. 

Not  unlike  the  birds  is  too  often  the  truth  with  human 
life.  The  morning  of  life  comes  to  us  blooming  with 
glad  expectations  of  youth.  Then,  as  we  grow  into 
young  manhood  and  young  womanhood,  we  see 
no  cloud  upon  the  sky,  no  worm  in  the  bud 
of  promise,  no  anticipated  barriers  to  the  full 
enjoyment  of  human  bliss.  But,  alas !  if  we 
could  lift  the  veil  that  hides  the  future  from  our  eyes 
the  pleasant  dreams  of  youth  would  pale  away  before 
stern  realities.  Sooner  or  later  we  had  best  learn  that 
which  another  has  well  said,  that — "life_  is^earQ^st. 
That  it  is  fraught  with  great  peril  as  well  as  with  grand 
and  noble  victories.  That  life  is  not  an  idle 
promenade  through  fragrant  flower  gardens,  but 
it  is  a  stern  pilgrimage — a  battle  and  a  march."  How 
sweet  it  is  to  have  father's  and  mother's  strong  arms 
about  us  to  protect  and  bear  us  up !  But  one  day  the 
father's  strong  arm  shall  lose  its  strength,  crumble  and 
fall;  the  home-nest  is  broken,  and  we  shall  go  out  into 
life  upon  our  own  responsibilities  and  resources  to  fight 
the  battles  of  life  alone. 

How  little  the  world  knows  of  the  adverse  conditions 
under  which  a  large  per  cent,  of  the  children  of  our 
own  Appalachian  region  must  struggle  in  their  earlier 
and  tender  years.  Too  often  it  falls  to  their  lot  to  be 
set  adrift — like  the  birdling  from  a  broken  nest. 

The  lot  of  Gena  Filson,  the  only  daughter  of  Lucky 
Joe,  was  a  hard  one.  Lucky  Joe  Filson  had  not  been 
much  of  a  father  to  little  Gena.  Nevertheless,  he  had 
always  been  kind  to  her,  even  tender  in  his  uncouth- 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS         25 

way.  But  now  her  father  and  mother  were  both  sleep- 
ing under  the  chestnut  trees  on  the  hill  overlooking  Blood 
Camp,  and  her  friends  were  few  indeed. 

But  true  to  his  promise,  Paul  Waffington  journeyed 
back  to  the  hills  and  sought  her  mountain  home.  He 
turned  from  the  deserted  home  and  went  into  the  village 
and  learned  the  truth.  The  villagers  told  him  of  the 
mother's  death  and  the  subsequent  going  away  of  the 
brothers  to  the  far  west,  in  quest  of  fortune  and  fame, 
leaving  behind  them  the  baby  of  the  nest,  Gena,  aged 
thirteen,  bound  under  the  roof  of  old  Jase  Dillenburger, 
to  wear  her  little  body  away  over  the  rocks  and  hills, 
toiling  for  him.  He  met  her  at  the  Sunday-school  on  the 
following  Sunday,  and  went  with  her  to  the  cabin  on  the 
mountain  side,  and  was  introduced  to  her  savage  foster- 
father,  old  Jase.  After  a  brief  visit,  he  presented  the 
promised  book,  "Captain  January,"  and  departed. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  to  Jase  Dillenburger.  "A  fine 
little  soul  is  your  adopted  daughter,  and  I  know  that  you 
appreciate  your  position  to  her.  Good-bye,  Gena.  Strive 
to  ahvays  keep  yourself  as  sweet  as  you  now  are,  and  I 
am  sure  that  it  will  bring  happiness  to  all.     Good-bye." 

The  long  summer  months  had  passed  away  since  he 
who  had  promised  to  befriend  her  had  taken  his  de- 
parture from  the  cabin  on  the  mountain,  and  the  succeed- 
ing days  brought  her  only  toil  and  abuse.  Through  the 
heat  of  the  summer  she  had  been  compelled  to  go  to  the 
field  with  the  others,  and  work  with  the  hoe.  Then,  when 
summer  was  over,  there  were  scores  of  unfinished  tasks 
in  the  cabin  waiting  for  her  tired  hands. 

She  sits  tonight  in  the  cabin  by  the  side  of  old  Jase's 
portly  wife,  darning  her  part  of  the  huge  pile  of  yarn 
socks  that  lay  before  them.  The  light  by  which  she 
works  is  not  an  electric  burner, — not  even  the  common 
brass  lamp  of  years  ago,  but  rather  a  faint  light,  com- 


26         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

ing  from  the  end  of  a  strip  of  cloth  immersed  in  a  spoon- 
ful of  grease.  Even  though  the  light  is  faint  and  does 
flicker,  the  golden  head  looks  shapely  and  the  neck  and 
eyes  are  beautiful.  Long  before  ten  o'clock  the  short 
little  back  grows  tired,  and  the  big,  blue  eyes  grow  heavy, 
but  she  works  on  with  never  an  outward  sign  of  fatigue. 
Whenever  the  last  sock  is  darned,  then,  perhaps,  she 
will  be  allowed  to  go  to  her  hard  bed.  But  her  tired 
limbs  are  hardly  relaxed  in  sleep  until  the  thundering 
voice  of  old  Jase  commands  her  to  get  up. 

"Git  up,  an'  git  about !  The  clock's  struck  four  an'  no 
fires  built,  nor  nothin'  done.  You  build  the  big  fire  fust, 
'fore  you  go  to  the  cookin' !  An'  mind  thet  you  put  the 
back  log  on  right,  too,  or  I'll  tan  you  up  when  I  git  up. 
Move  about  now !"  And  thus,  being  driven  by  a  hard 
and  uncompromising  hand  through  such  drudgery  as  this, 
the  tender  and  delicate  hands  were  becoming  thin  and 
coarse,  the  pretty  little  form  twisted  and  dwarfed,  and 
the  rosy-cheeked  face  growing  pale  and  pinched. 

Gena  Filson  had  good  blood  in  her  veins.  Joseph  Fil- 
son  had  been  born  in  the  mountains  and  his  father  be- 
fore him.  But  old  Granny  Green  knew  all  the  facts  of 
how  it  came  about,  that  Joseph  Filson  brought  his  wife 
into  the  mountains  from  the  Pennsylvania  settlements  in 
those  early  days.  Before  Granny  Green  died,  she  had 
taken  the  Allisons  into  her  confidence  and  told  them  the 
true  story  of  the  mother  of  Gena  Filson.  When  Joseph 
Filson  was  young,  a  drover  had  employed  him  as  a  helper 
with  the  cattle  on  the  long  trips  that  were  made  to  the 
markets  of  Pennsylvania.  In  the  third  year  of  Joseph 
Filson's  drovership,  he  brought  back  with  him  into  the 
mountains  his  young  bride,  *'a  teacher  from  the  Penn- 
sylvania settlements,"  as  he  announced  to  his  friends. 

For  the  first  few  years  of  her  married  life  the  wife  of 
Joseph  Filson  was  happy.    Then  her  life  narrowed  down 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  27 

and  became  bound  by  the  mountain  fastnesses,  but  never 
a  murmur  from  her.  Years  went  by  and  Joseph  yielded 
to  temptation,  but  she  was  not  too  harsh.  He  went  to 
prison  at  last,  but  she  bore  up  under  it  for  the  family's 
sake.  But  in  the  end,  grief  overcame  her,  and  tenderly 
she  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  chestnut  grove  along  by  the 
side  of  the  mountaineer  whose  name  she  bore. 

In  the  bright  afternoon  sunshine  Gena  Filson  sits  in 
the  door  of  the  cabin  on  the  mountainside,  and  looks  off 
over  the  thousands  of  peaks  and  wonders  what  will  be 
the  end  of  her.  Hard  labor  is  driving  the  red  from  her 
cheeks.  She  looks  at  her  hands  and  notes  the  thinness 
and  the  corns  in  her  palms.  If  she  were  only  away  over 
on  the  other  side  of  that  great  peak  over  there,  she 
thought !  Oh,  it  would  seem  rest  to  her !  Who  lives  over 
there,  she  knows  not.  But  just  to  be  away,  to  get  away 
from  the  hard  knocks  of  old  Jase,  would  be  rest  to  her 
weary  limbs !  But  the  hawk-eye  of  old  Jase  was  always 
upon  her.  He  had  lately  bound  her  world  by  the  yard 
fence,  which  was  some  thirty  feet  square,  unless  she  was 
sent  into  the  field  for  something,  and  then  always  with 
another.  Twice  she  had  asked  if  she  might  visit  her 
mother's  grave  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  received  all 
but  a  flogging  for  the  asking. 

"Go  to  your  mammy's  grave?  I'll  go  ye  to  somebody's 
grave.  You  let  the  ded  alone.  Nobody  is  goin'  to  bother 
yer  mammy's  grave.  We  got  no  time  to  spendin'  on  ded 
uns.  It's  hard  for  us  to  keep  the  livin'  agoin'.  My 
mammy  never  had  a  flower  on  her  grave,  an'  I  haint  seed 
it  in  twenty  year'.  Your  mammy  warn't  no  better  than 
my  mammy  wuz,  if  she  did  come  frum  Pinsilvaney.  I'm 
your  boss  now.  You  git  about  pullin'  weeds  down  thar 
in  the  garden  or  sumthin'.  An'  ef  I  hear  of  ye  aspeakin' 
of  sich  foolin'  agin,  I'm  agoin'  to  tan  ye  up,"  and  with 


28  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

a  shake  of  his  huge  fist  old  Jase  turned  and  went  down 
the  mountainside. 

After  the  old  mountaineer  had  gone,  she  ventured  to 
go  out  to  the  yard  fence  and  look  down  the  mountainside 
towards  the  village  of  Blood  Camp.  It  was  now  late  in 
the  Sunday  afternoon,  and  she  saw  the  people  returning 
to  their  homes  from  the  little  Sunday-school  that  Paul 
Waffington  had  organized  two  years  before.  Her  young 
heart  was  full  now  at  the  sight  of  the  Sunday-school 
scholars.  How  she  longed  to  be  with  them.  True,  old 
Jase  had  permitted  her  to  attend  for  a  time.  But  then 
she  came  home  one  day  with  Paul  Waffington  with  her, 
and  the  old  man  had  been  miserably  persecuted  for 
an  hour  or  more  by  the  presence  of  a  good  man  in  his 
house.  Since  that  time  old  Jase  had  told  her  that  it  was 
best  for  her  to  stay  near  him,  and  that  he  himself  didn't 
go  to  "sich  doing's  as  Sunday-skules." 

She  stood  and  looked  down  upon  the  dispersing 
scholars  and  wondered  whv  she  could  not  be  as  free  as 
they.  Why  had  she  so  few  friends?  Why  had  her  two 
brothers  deserted  her  so?  Why  had  they  never  written 
to  her?  Perhaps  they  did,  but  the  letters  never  reached 
her. 

**But  Mr.  Waffington  said  that  he  would  come  back  to 
see  me  again,  and  that  he  would  be  my  friend,"  she  finally 
said  aloud.  She  sighed  as  she  looked  away  out  over  the 
domes  and  peaks  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  saw  the  long  golden 
finger  of  the  setting  sun  kiss  the  hills  good-night,  turned 
and  went  into  the  cabin. 

That  night  Gena  Filson  went  to  her  hard  bed  with  her 
heart  full — it  was  heavy.  She  well  knew  that  the  morn- 
ing would  bring  her  nothing  less  than  another  solid  week 
of  hard  and  continuous  toil,  and,  oh,  could  she  endure  it ! 
As  she  lay  in  her  dark  corner  and  thought  of  her  place 
in  the  world,  and  of  her  hard  master,  old  Jase,  she  wished 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  29 

that  she  might  be  dead,  and  wondered,  if  such  were  the 
case,  if  he  would  allow  her  the  privilege  of  being  buried 
by  the  side  of  her  dear  mother  under  the  chestnut  tree. 

"Nobody  thinks  of  me!  Nobody  cares  for  me!  No- 
body loves  me!"  she  cried,  in  the  late  hours  of  the  night. 
Then  turning  on  her  hard  bed  she  fell  asleep  to  dream. 
She  dreamed  of  a  beautiful  country  where  people  are 
gentle  and  kind,  where  everyone  is  friendly  and  just, 
and  where  little  mountain  girls  never  grow  hungry  or 
cold.  And  as  she  went  forward  in  that  land,  Paul  Waf- 
fington  was  the  first  to  meet  her.  And  together  they  went 
into  the  fields  and  wove  garlands  and  coverlets  of  daisies, 
and  stood  at  her  mother's  grave,  and  Paul  Waffington 
bared  his  head  and  laid  the  coverlet  on  the  mound  and 
tucked  it  with  all  but  a  feminine  hand. 

What  a  pity  that  our  Gena  could  not  always  dream 
on  and  never  awake  to  her  hard  material  surroundings ! 
But  perish  the  thought;  and  let  her  dream  on  in  peace 
novv,  for  the  morning  will  dawn,  aye,  too  soon. 


CHAPTER    V 
The  Shepherd  of  Nobody's  Sheep 

Paul  Waffington  was  a  Kentuckian.  He  was  of 
that  old  Scotch-Irish  type,  of  good  blood,  honest  and 
poor,  who,  combining  tact  and  skill,  have  always 
forged  their  way  to  the  front.  He  had  been  bred  and 
born  in  a  cabin  near  by  the  town  of  Hazel  Green 
that  was  made  famous  in  the  story  of  "Jo"3.than  and 
His  Continent,"  by  Max  O'Rell. 

When  he  was  but  a  boy,  hundreds  of  times  he  had 
followed  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father, — gone  out  on 
the  ridges  and  gathered  his  load  of  fat  pine-knots, 
that  father  and  son  alike  might  have  a  light  by  v/hich 
to  pursue  their  study.  Then  when  circumstances 
changed  a  bit,  and  a  half  opportunity  at  a  college 
course  was  offered  him,  he  accepted  it  with  a  will. 

Even  v/hen  in  college  he  had  been  called  "sissy" 
and  "girlie"  by  many  of  his  classmates,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  was  compelled  to  pay  his  way  with 
the  labor  of  his  hands.  But  Paul  Waffington  cared 
not  a  straw  for  such  proffered  titles.  Therefore,  with 
■d  firm  jaAv  and  a  determined  heart,  he  rolled  up  his 
sleeves  each  evening  and  went  into  the  mountain  of 
('irty  dishes  before  him  with  confidence,  believing  that 
revv-ard  was  at  the  end.  x\nd  if,  after  darkness  comes 
light  and  after  toil  comes  rest,  then  so  it  ever  will  be, 
that  dili;0-ence  and  perseverance  must  bring  reward. 

One  day  college  life  was  over  with  Paul  Waffington. 
There  was  much  bustle  and  hurry  to  get  away,  and 
he  was  leaving  with  the  others.     Around  the  old  hall 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  31 

with  its  ivy-covered  walls  they  lingered  as  they 
cheered  and  comforted  one  another  and  said  good-bye. 
Amid  those  last  moments  of  parting  a  little,  frail,  old 
man  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  taking 
young  Waffington  by  the  hand  led  him  away.  Out 
through  the  long  hall  they  went  together,  and  into 
the  little  classroom  through  w^hich  the  young  collegian 
liad  passed  a  thousand  times  before.  It  was  dear 
old  Professor  Goff  that  had  singled  him  out  and  led 
him  away.  Such  a  dear  old  man,  reader,  from  vvhom 
you  turned  away  on  that  other  day  when  you  yourself 
went  away  from  college.  The  old  man  shut  the  door 
Hnd  took  his  student's  hand  in  his  own  bony  palms 
and  held  it  long.  Then  came  the  parting  message 
•<i?'d  the  benediction  and  then  the  final  handshake — 
and  the  aged  man  tried  to  say  good-bye,  but  the  words 
were  never  spoken. 

The  real  commencement  of  Paul  Waffington's  life 
i>egan  when  he  turned  away  from  the  old  man,  w^ent 
cut  and  shut  the  door.  Everyone  knew  that  Waf- 
fington had  not  only  v/on  the  college  honors — a  gold 
medal,  but  that  he  had  won  and  was  carrying  away 
with  him  the  heart  of  the  grand  old  man  of  the 
college. 

Since  college  days  he  had  for  a  time  pitched  his  tent 
with  the  "lumber  jacks"  of  the  north — there  to  learn 
the  true  worth  of  honest  toil.  Then  followed  a  couple 
of  years  of  "roughing  it"  among  the  sandhills  of  New 
pvlexico,  that  taught  him  to  look  the  world  in  the 
face  with  confidence  and  courage.  Finally,  he  returns 
to  a  certain  city  in  his  own  southland  and  there  es- 
tablished himself — to  work  in  the  interest  of  the 
nhildren   of  the   Appalachian  hills. 

We   see  him   now  as  he   steps  from   his   car  with 
traveling-bag.      Five    feet    nine;    twenty-two    years, 


32  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

straight,  and  walks  a  little  fast  for  most  men  of  his 
age. 

Blood  Camp  had  been  but  little  in  the  mind  of 
Paul  Waffington  of  late.  In  fact,  demands  upon  him 
in  other  directions  had  taxed  his  mind  and  body  to 
their  capacity.  More  than  a  year  had  elapsed  since  he 
was  in  Blood  Camp,  but,  after  all,  the  time  had  not 
seemed  long  to  him.  But  now^  as  he  turned  in  at 
his  headquarters  for  a  few  days'  rest,  Gena  and  the 
people  of  Blood  Camp  comes  sharply  up  before  him. 

During  the  past  few  months  he  had  had  conversa- 
tion with  two  or  perhaps  three  commercial  travelers 
who  had  passed  through  the  village  recently,  but  they 
could  give  him  no  information  of  little  Gena  or  old 
Jase.  He  settled  at  his  desk  and  began  going  through 
his  mail.  After  dashing  off  his  answer  to  the  last 
letter  of  the  stack  of  accumulated  mail,  he  turned  from 
the  desk  and  settled  back  in  his  chair  with  a  breath 
of  relief.  But  no  sooner  done,  a  feeling  of  apparent 
fear  or  dread  possessed  him. 

"It  is  a  little  strange,  though,  that  Gena  has  never 
written  one  single  word,"  he  at  length  said,  as  he 
studied  the  floor.  "I  gave  her  some  postcards  and 
merelv  asked  her  to  droD  a  line  now  and  then,  that  I 
might  know  that  she  does  well.  Yes,  I  asked  Jase 
to  write,  too.  How  long  has  it  been?  November  is 
twelve,  and  June  is  seventeen  months  and  never  a 
word!  Then  I  sent  her  a  little  Christmas  present, 
too.  But  who  knows  if  she  received  it?  Jase  may 
have  taken  it  from  the  post-office,  torn  the  little  silk 
scarf  to  shreds  and  put  a  match  to  it  for  all  I  know. 
Oh  no,  he  didn't.  Jase  Dillenburger  is  too  old  a  man 
to  treat  a  sweet  girl  like  Gena  Filson  in  such  a  man- 
ner. His  own  adopted  daughter?  Oh  no,  he  took 
the  package  to  her.     She  simply  has  been  too  busy 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  33 

with  the  work  that  her  tender  hands  find  there  to 
write,"  he  finishes.  Then  for  a  full  ten  minutes  he 
sat  thinking  it  all  over.  "Don't  like  this  protracted 
silence,  though.  Something  might  be  wrong  at  Blood 
Camp,"  he   murmured. 

Walking  to  the  door  of  his  room  he  looked  out 
into  the  street.  Darkness  was  coming  on.  He  sees 
the  street-lamps  flash  out  their  first  rays  for  the  night, 
and  watches  the  carbons  jump  and  pop  in  the  one 
nearest  him,  as  the  current  burnt  off  the  new  tips. 
'  'fting  his  eyes  a  little,  he  looked  through  the  meshes 
of  telephone  and  electric  wires,  and  searches  the  stars 
for  answer  to  the  question  that  he  was  debating  in  his 
mind. 

'Terhaps  I  ought  to  go.  It's  a  long  way  removed 
from  Knoxville,  though,  is  Blood  Camp.  A  hundred 
and  twenty  by  rail  and  forty  horseback  or  foot."  Tak- 
ing a  hasty  look  into  his  pocketbook  he  looked  up 
quickly  and  finished,  "and  afoot  this  time  without  a 
doubt." 

The  telephone  bell  rang,  and  he  went  to  the  tele- 
phone with  his  question  unsettled. 

"Hello." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Yes,  sir;  this  is  Paul  Waffington." 

"I  didn't  understand.  Doctor."  ' 

"Well,  I  am  very  sorry,  Doctor,  but  I  will  be  away." 

"Why— er— Blood  Camp,  Doctor." 

"Good-bye,  Doctor."  He  hung  up  the  receiver, 
turned  about  and  shoved  both  hands  down  deep  into 
his  trousers  pockets  and  stared  at  the  floor. 

"Now  it's  settled,  I  think.  Doctor  Gray  wanted  me 
for  dinner  to-morrow  and  I  told  him  that  I  was  going 
away — to  Blood  Camp,  so  now  it's  settled.    Well,  my 


34         GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS 

promise  is  out  to  Gena  Filson  anyway,  so  that  set- 
tles it." 

On  the  following  morning  the  hero  of  this  narrative 
stepped  from  his  train  with  an  air  of  rest  and  satis- 
faction, with  forty  miles  of  rough  mountain  road 
lying  between  him  and  Blood  Camp.  The  meridian 
rays  of  a  July  sun  beat  mercilessly  down  upon  him, 
as  the  rocks  threw  him  first  to  one  side  of  the  road 
and  then  to  the  other  side.  But  never  a  faltering 
moment  with  Paul  Waffington,  for  the  inviting 
shadows  of  the  Mighty  Snake  was  his  goal. 

He  had  learned  early  and  well  that  great  lesson, 
preparation.  Hence  he  began  early  in  the  afternoon 
to  find  lodging  along  the  way.  At  first  he  drew  up 
before  a  little  brown  cottage  near  the  roadside.  The 
little  mother  of  the  home  was  sick,  hence  our  traveler 
must  be  denied.  He  trudged  on  through  the  dust  and 
called  at  the  large  white  house  just  at  the  forks  of 
the  road.  Here,  too,  was  sickness,  coupled  with  the 
fact  that  the  master  of  the  house  was  away.  i\gain 
he  takes  up  his  traveling-bag,  wipes  the  wet  dust 
from  his  brow  and  journeys  on.  It  seemed  to  the 
traveler  a  long  way  to  the  next  house.  But  just  before 
turning  into  the  gorge  he  sav/  a  great  farmhouse  by 
the  roadside.  Fat,  sleek  cattle  grazed  in  the  clovers ; 
the  barns  were  bursting  with  the  crops  of  the  pre- 
ceding year;  the  fields  were  waving  with  coming 
crops,  and  surely,  thought  our  pilgrim,  he  would  lodge 
here  with  ease. 

"What  did  you  say  your  bizness  is?"  asked  the 
woman  on  the  front  porch. 

*T'm  a  Sunday-school  worker,  madam.  Tm  on  my 
way  to  Blood  Camp,  and  am  tired  and  sore.  I  cer- 
tainly would  be  glad  to  abide  the  night  with  you ; 


GENA    OF   THE    APPALACHIANS  35 

I  have  change  with  which  to  pay  for  my  lodging" 
and " 

"I'm  mighty  sorry,  but  we're  all  sick  here,  an'  I 
guess  we  can't  keep  ye." 

"Is  not  that  your  husband  over  there  in  the  field 
with  the  horses?"  he  inquired,  kindly. 

"Yes,  sir.  But  you  needn't  ax  him,  fur  we're  all 
sick  here  an'  I  guess  thet  we  can't  keep  ye,"  she 
finished,  as  she  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Madam,  have  you  any  sons?"  he  ventured  to  ask  at 
length. 

"Oh,  a  boy.     But  he's  not  here.     He's  in  Texas." 

"Well,  may  the  good  Lord  bless  him.  And  may 
he  ever  find  a  kindly  home  in  which  to  abide  the  night 
when  he  falls  among  strangers.  Good  evening, 
madam,"  and  swinging  his  heavy  hand-bag  as  if  it 
were  a  mere  trifle,  with  renewed  determination  he 
trudged  on. 

The  sun  was  closing  his  great,  wonderful  eye  in  the 
west  and  darkness  was  fast  filling  the  valleys  and 
gorges.  On  either  side  of  his  way  now  appeared 
great  clumps  of  wild  ivy  and  rhododendrons.  Down 
from  the  deep  gorge  a  gentle  breeze  brought  to  his 
nostrils  the  sweet  breath  of  wild  honeysuckles  and 
mountain  roses.  He  quickened  his  steps  and  went 
forward,  believing  that  he  could  continue  to  walk  the 
whole  night  through,  in  the  breath  of  the  sweet  flow- 
ers. Here  and  there  he  plucked  a  tuft  of  mountain 
moss  from  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  Now  he  snatched 
a  wild  cucumber  blossom  from  its  stem  that  brushed 
his  face  and  carried  it  on  with  him. 

He  turned  into  the  deep  gorge  in  the  twilight  of 
evening,  recalling  what  he  had  once  been  told  of  the 
attacks  of  the  wild  animals  that  frequent  the  gorge. 
Then,  too,  he  had  been  told,  that  the  gorge  contained 


36         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

at  times  bands  of  cutthroats  and  robbers,  besides  not 
a  few  moonshine  distilleries.  Commercial  travelers 
always  made  it  a  point  to  pass  through  the  gorge 
in  the  daytime.  And  if,  perchance,  they  were  delayed 
in  making  the  gorge  in  the  heat  of  the  noon-day's 
sun,  they  lodged  the  night  on  the  North  Carolina  side, 
or  vice  versa,  in  order  to  be  safe  from  harm. 

"But  nobody  would  harm  me,  I  believe,"  Paul  Waf- 
fington  murmured  as  he  passed  on  into  the  gorge. 

Just  then  he  made  out  through  the  twilight  a  cabin 
almost  hidden  by  a  clump  of  rhododendrons.  He  drew 
up  before  it  and  called  out : 

"Hello!" 

"Oh,  Lordy  have  mercy !  Oh !  You  liked  to  scared 
me  plumb  to  death,  sure,"  said  the  voice  of  a  large, 
fat  vvoman  as  she  came  running  out  from  behind  the 
clump  of  rhododendrons,  holding  on  to  her  milk- 
pail  with  one  hand  and  digging  the  warm  milk  out 
of  her  eyes  with  the  other.  She  stood  there  working 
the  milk  out  of  her  eyes  and  wiping  her  face,  a  woman 
of  some  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  avoirdupois 
and   proportionately   tall. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  acomin'  at  all.  Milk  spilt?  Why, 
Lordy  bless  you,  I  don't  care  nothin'  fur  the  milk. 
Jist  so  old  Blackie  didn't  knock  the  bottom  clean  outer 
this  new  milk-pail  is  all  I  care  fur.  An'  it's  a  thousand 
wonders  thet  she  didn't  knock  it  clean  out  when  she 
heard  you  holler  over  there.  You  see,  she  ain't  used 
to  hearn'  anybody  holler  in  this  here  gorge  atter  night. 
Nobody  passes  this  gorge  much  at  night.  Then,  be- 
sides, Blackie  is  the  skeeriest  cow  in  this  here  gorge, 
an'  has  bin  ever  since  she  wuz  a  calf.  An'  thet's 
asayin'  a  right  smart,  too,  for  this  gorge  is  nine  miles 
long.  What  did  you  say?  A  stranger  and  want  to 
stay  all  night !"  She  softened  down  to  a  kind  motherly 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  17 

tone  and  continued,  *'Why,  Lordy  bless  you,  child, 
we're  the  poorest  family  'twixt  here  an'  Blood  Camp 
an'  jist  one  room.  But,  child,  if  you  think  thet  you 
can  put  up  with  our  fare,  the  door's  open,  go  in. 
Here,  Cicero,  fetch  a  chair  out  here  in  the  yard,  I 
believe  it's  more  pleasanter  out  here.  Now  hurry, 
Cicero,  an'  bild'  a  gnat-smoke  here  in  the  yard  fur 
this  gentleman.  Hurry  now.  There,  stranger,  take 
thet  chair  an'  rest.  The  smoke  maybe  '11  keep  the 
gnats  off.  Now  jist  make  yourself  at  home  an'  rest. 
My  old  man  and  tother  boy  Caesar  have  gone  to  mill, 
but  they'll  be  back  directly.  So  jist  make  yourself 
at  home  and  rest,"  and  off  she  went  into  the  cabin, 
to  bake  the  corn-pone  on  the  coals  for  supper. 


CHAPTER  VI 

When  Evening  Comes 

What  a  world  of  joy,  happiness  and  rest — of  fear, 
dread  and  remorse  evening  brings ! 

Some  are  glad  when  evening  comes,  and  hail  with 
delight  the  first  long  shadows  of  the  dying  day.  The 
sturdy  toiler  of  the  field  puts  forth  his  sickle  in  the 
early  morning  and  gleans  the  long  day  through  with  con- 
fidence, believing  that  when  the  end  of  the  day  is  come 
he  can  lay  down  his  blade,  go  in  at  the  door  of  his  humble 
home  and  under  the  spell  of  sweet  smiles  and  the  merry 
laughter  of  those  whom  he  loves,  forget  the  toils  of  the 
day  and  find  sweet  rest  and  peace. 

But  to  another — the  prisoner  behind  the  bars — evening 
brings  remorse  and  dread.  His  restless  body  is  early 
astir,  and  he  sits  in  his  iron  chains,  looks  out  through 
the  bars,  and  watches  the  curtains  of  night  receding  as 
the  rising  sun  brings  forth  a  new  day.  At  the  noontide, 
he  gets  a  glimpse  of  the  busy,  surging  throngs  in  the 
street  below.  He  strains  his  ears  and  catches  from  the 
throng  words  of  cheer  and  strength;  songs  of  happiness 
and  courage — and  hope  is  almost  born  again  in  his  bosom. 
But,  alas !  the  day  soon  dies,  and  the  gathering  shadows 
of  night  fall  upon  him,  bringing  only  fear  and  regret, 
for  well  he  knows  for  him  tomorrow's  sun  will  never 
rise. 

Then  to  the  weary  traveler,  what  a  world  of  suspense, 
fatigue  and  rest  evening  brings !  At  first,  footsore,  hun- 
gry and  alone,  he  plods  on  through  the  dust  and  meets 
the  shadows  of  evening  with  a  faltering  heart.     But 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS         39 

when  a  friendly  roof  is  found,  how  quickly  the  fainting 
heart  is  changed  to  one  of  strength  and  multiplied  joys  1 
After  the  day  is  done,  is  it  not  sweet  to  the  worn  traveler 
to  abide  the  night  under  a  kindly  roof  ?  To  go  in  at  the 
door  and  find  a  welcome?  To  lie  down  upon  the  couch 
and  sleep,  assured  of  the  protection  and  defense  of  the 
home,  cannot  fail  to  fill  the  heart  with  gratitude  and  re- 
mind us  of  how  close  akin  all  the  world  must  be. 

As  Paul  Waffington  sat  with  his  chair  tilted  back 
against  the  cabin  wall  tonight,  he  watched  the  chip-fire 
glow  and  burn  through  the  darkness  with  great  satisfac- 
tion. True  gratitude  was  welling  up  and  running  over 
in  his  human  heart  as  he  sat  alone,  taking  his  rest.  He 
was  thanking  his  lucky  star  that  he  had  found  the  humble 
home  in  which  to  abide  the  night.  Evening  breezes  came 
down  from  the  great  gorge  above,  laden  with  the  breath 
of  sweet  flowers.  He  sniffed  their  perfumes  into  his 
nostrils  and  all  but  cried  aloud  with  ecstasy.  At  the 
further  side  of  the  yard  the  stream  babbled  and  laughed 
as  it  went  on  its  way,  hurrying  on  to  the  falls 
below.  It  was  the  very  stream  that  ran  by  Blood  Camp. 
Yes,  its  fountain-head  rivulet  began  not  a  hundred  yards 
distant  from  the  cabin  in  which  Gena  Filson  dwelt  to- 
night. Turbulent  little  stream !  thought  Paul  Waffington. 
First  an  eddy,  then  a  pool;  then  a  splash,  splash  over 
the  rocks,  then  a  fall.  Fall  after  fall,  winding  and  twist- 
ing forever  through  the  rhododendrons  and  laurels,  al- 
ways overshadowed  by  the  tall  hemlocks. 

*Toor  little  Gena  Filson,"  he  said  at  length.  *T  hope 
that  her  life  will  not  be  laden  with  as  many  dark  turns, 
falls  and  corners  as  the  stream  on  which  she  lives  to- 
night." 

"Gee,  gee  gee-e-e-ee!  Haw,  haw,"  were  the  sounds 
that  came  to  his  ears  through  the  night  as  he  looked  up. 
"Gee-haw!     Git  up,  git  up.     Haw,  haw,  haw!!  Haw — 


40         GENA   OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

woa-a-a-a-o-oo-a-a-aTi ! !  Here,  Cicero,  come  out  here  an* 
help  Caesar  tote  these  two  turns  of  meal  in  the  house 
while  I  go  and  put  up  the  mare  an*  sled.  Hurry  now," 
said  the  man,  driving  up  into  the  yard.  "Now,  hurry, 
Cicero,  fur  yo'  ma  has  got  supper  ready,  fur  I  can  smell 
the  bread  a  bakin',"  continued  the  voice. 

"Pa,  there's  a  man  come,"  declared  Cicero  excitedly, 
as  he  went  out  to  help  with  the  corn-meal. 

"A  man's  come?"  profoundly  repeated  the  father,  drop- 
ping the  bag  and  straightening  up.     "Who  is  it?" 

"Don't  know.  He's  a  settin'  side  the  house  by  the 
gnat-smoke,  there  in  the  dark,"  said  the  boy. 

"Well,  you  take  the  mare  and  the  sled  to  the  barn, 
C^sar,  an'  I'll  help  Cicero  with  the  meal  an'  see  who  it  is," 
the  man  finished  in  an  undertone.  So  saying,  he  lifted 
a  bag  of  the  fresh  corn-meal  to  his  shoulder  and  made 
for  the  open  door  of  the  cabin. 

'Howdy,"  he  simply  said,  as  he  came  up  by  the  door. 
'Good  evening,  sir.  You  are  the  master  of  the  house, 
I  suppose?"  said  Paul  Waffington,  as  he  arose  and  put 
out  his  hand. 

"I  guess  so.    What  might  your  name  be?" 
"Waffington,  sir.     Paul  Waffington,  of  Knoxville.   I'm 
on  my  way  to  Blood  Camp,  and  I  am  anxious  to  spend 
the  night  with  you,"  he  said  in  inquiring  accents. 

"My  name's  Henry  Tolson — glad  to  see  you,"  was  all 
that  he  said  in  reply  as  he  entered  the  cabin. 

Paul  Waffington  was  hungry  tonight.  As  he  sat  by 
the  side  of  the  open  door,  the  smell  of  the  frying  ham 
and  the  perfume  of  the  baking  corn-pone  came  to  his 
nostrils,  and  his  hunger  became  painful. 

"Here,  Cicero,  Csesar — come  'ere,"  called  the  mother, 
as  she  went  through  the  door  and  round  to  the  rear  of 
the  little  cabin.  "Now,  I  want  you  two  boys  to  listen 
to  what  I'm  goin'  to  say:   We've  got  big  company  here 


GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS         41 

tonight.  An'  I  want  to  teach  you  boys  a  little  more 
about  your  table  manners.  Now,  whin  you  go  to  the 
table  to  eat  your  supper,  you  say  'yes,  sir,'  and  'no,  sir,' 
when  the  gentleman  speaks  to  you.  An'  whin  you  want 
anything  that  is  on  my  side  of  the  table,  you  say,  'please, 
ma'am,'  an'  'thank  you.'  An',  listen,  Caesar,  none  of 
your  foolin'  and  knockin'.  Now  don't  fergit !  Caesar, 
Cicero !  Ef  you  do  fergit  it,  I'll  warm  you  both  up  with  a 
birch  sprout  whin  this  gentleman's  gone.  Your  ma  was 
brot  up  right  an'  had  a  good  rais'en  before  we  come 
into  this  here  country,  an'  I'm  plum  ashamed  of  you 
two  boys  sometimes.  Now  its  big  company  thet  we've 
got  tonight  an'  I  want  you  boys  to  act  nice." 

"Is  this  man  bigger  company  than  the  sheriff,  ma? 
You  know  we  had  'im  once  to  stay  all  night,"  ventured 
Cicero. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  But  I  'low  he  is.  He  may  be 
the  Governor  fur  all  I  know.  An'  if  he  is  the  Governor, 
now  you  two  look  sharp — he  might  take  you  off  to  the 
penitentiary  where  June  Hanley  and  Jim  Fields  wint 
last  spring.  An',  oh,  you  have  to  live  on  bread  an'  water 
and  be  put  in  a  great,  big  iron  coffin  of  a  thing — where 
you  can't  git  out  and  jist  have  to  bail  water  out  of  the 
thing  all  the  time,  day  an'  night,  to  keep  from  drownin'. 
Now  you  look  sharp !"  She  finished  as  she  shook  her 
huge  fist  at  the  head  of  each  of  the  mischievous  boys, 
and  went  into  the  house,  calHng  over  her  shoulder,  "Bring 
the  stranger  and  come  to  supper,  Henry." 

Paul  Waffington  went  to  his  supper  in  the  cabin  with 
a  grateful  heart  and  a  gnawing  appetite.  Corn-bread, 
sweet  milk  and  ham  was  about  the  extent  of  the  simple 
repast.  But  by  no  means  was  the  supper  crudely  pre- 
pared. The  flavor  of  the  sweet  corn-pone  indicated 
that  a  master  hand  had  been  at  work  in  the  preparation 
of  the  evening  meal.    It  was  indeed  a  master  hand.    One 


42         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

that  had  learned  the  trick  from  a  past-master,  away- 
back  on  the  coast  of  the  old  North  State  in  the  long  ago, 
when  the  art  of  cooking  was  taken  up  with  a  will  in  the 
kitchen  of  every  home. 

Henry  Tolson  had  just  finished  relating  the  story  of 
how  it  had  happened  that  they  were  in  their  present  sur- 
roundings, as  the  supper  progressed.  "Yes,  stranger," 
began  Mrs.  Tolson,  taking  up  the  story  where  her  hus- 
band had  left  off,  "we've  bin  in  these  hills  nigh  on  to 
twenty  year." 

"Its  not  'stranger,'  mother,  it's  Mr.  Waffington  from 
Knoxville,"  corrected  Henry. 

"Well,  I  declare,  Henry,  I  didn't  know  it.  But  he 
might  a  told  me  out  there  in  the  yard  whin  the  cow 
kicked  me,  fur  all  I  know.  But  I  was  too  scared  to  know 
whether  he  told  me  his  name  or  not  or  hardly  anything 
else.  But  as  I  was  asayin',  Mr.  Waffington,  its  bin 
twenty  year  aliken'  two  months  since  Henry  an'  me 
come  over  the  Boone  Trail  an'  stopped  here  in  this  wild 
gorge  to  rest.  We  had  started  to  them  goldfields  away 
out  yander  sum'ers  in  the  west.  But  whin  we  stopped 
here  that  night  to  rest — lawsa'me-alive,  I  can  remember 
it  jist  the  same  as  if  it  was  yesterday — when  we  stopped 
ihat  night  an'  got  a  campfire  built  we  got  so  busy  a  hunt- 
in'  fur  bread  that  we  ain't  never  had  no  time  to  go  on  an' 
hunt  fur  gold !  Have  more  milk.  Pass  the  bread  to  the 
str — to  Mr.  Waffington,  Henry.     Take  some  more  ham. 

You  Cicero — tut,  tut !     Sh ! ! "  and  she  put  her  hand 

down  under  the  side  of  the  table  and  shook  it  at  the 
mischievous  boys. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Cicero. 

"Oh !"  shouted  Caesar. 

"What's  the  matter,  Caesar?"  the  mother  asked,  with 
apparent  surprise. 

"Cicero  kicked  me  on  the  shin    Make  'im  quit." 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS         43 

"Don't  bother  Caesar,  Cicero.  Mr.  Waffington  will 
think  that  you  are  both  mighty  bad  boys." 

There  was  a  long  silence  likened  unto  that  perfect 
silence  and  calm  that  precedes  the  great  and  mighty 
storms  that  come  up  suddenly  over  the  seas.  Then 
Cicero,  the  youngest,  looked  up  out  of  the  corners  of  his 
eyes  and  ventured  to  ask: 

"Aire  you  the  Governor,  Mister?" 

"Why,  no,  my  boy,  I'm  not  the  Governor.  I  am  only  a 
man — a  common  man." 

"Now,  ma,"  Caesar  chimed  in.  "Ma  said  that  you  wuz 
the  Governor  and " 

"Caesar  Tolson,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  I'm,  I'm,  I'm, 
I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  the  mother  finally  said  in  despair. 

"An'  Ma  said  that  you  wuz  as  big  as  the  sheriff," 
piped  Cicero. 

"Ouch  !  O  ! — O  ! — O  !  oo — oo — my  sore  toe  !  My  sore 
toe!"  and  away  from  the  table  and  through  the  door 
hopped  Cicero  Tolson  on  one  foot,  carrying  the  other  in- 
jured member  in  his  hands.  In  an  unguarded  moment 
his  mischievous  brother  had  reached  his  foot  under  the 
table  and  come  down  heavily  with  his  heel  on  the  already 
bruised  and  sore  toe  of  Cicero,  hence  the  catastrophe. 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  that  my  two  boys  have  disturbed  you 
so,  while  you  are  atryin'  to  make  out  your  supper,  Mister 
Waffington,"  Mrs.  Tolson  said,  after  she  had  sent  the 
other  boy  from  the  table.  "But  try  to  make  out  some 
way,  an'  git  enough  if  you  can  to  keep  you  frum  starvin' 
'til  mornin'.  I  hope  you'll  forgive  'em.  I  do  hope  that 
you  will.  Maybe  that  you'll  enjoy  your  sleepin'  better 
than  your  eatin'  here  at  our  house.  You'll  have  to  sleep 
'tween  Cicero  an'  Caesar — but  then  they're  better  asleep, 
than  they  air  whin  they're  awake." 

Paul  Waffington  had  not  been  disturbed  by  the  bad 
deportment  of  Cicero  and  Caesar  Tolson.    On  the  other 


44         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

hand,  he  went  to  his  bed  in  the  corner  of  the  cabin  that 
night  with  a  contented  mind  and  a  rested  body. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  over  the  bed  holding  the 
candle,  and  looked  down  upon  the  faces  of  the  two  sleep- 
ing boys.  He  shook  his  head  as  he  looked  into  the  ruddy 
faces,  and  wondered,  if  in  future  years  they  should  not 
go  forth  from  this  mountain  gorge  with  robust  bodies 
and  great,  strong  minds,  and  employ  their  talents  in  wield- 
ing a  mighty  influence  to  promote  the  brotherhood  of 
man.  Thus  speculating  he  blew  out  the  candle,  turned 
down  the  cover,  and  slipped  into  his  place  between  the 
two,  and  was  soon  asleep. 


CHAPTER    VII 

BOAZ    HONEYCUTT 

Paul  Waffington  awoke  with  the  birds  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  He  came  out  from  between  the 
two  sleeping  boys  and  the  snowy  white  sheets  at 
the  break  of  day,  went  out  and  bathed  his  face  in 
the  running  stream.  He  rambled  through  the  clumps 
of  rhododendrons  and  ivy,  picking  the  flowers,  while 
Henry  Tolson  fed  the  mare  and  Mrs.  Tolson  made 
leady  the  morning's  meal. 

While  the  morning  was  yet  early  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  said  good-bye  to  the  little  family,  believing 
that  he  had  found  friends  in  Henry  Tolson  and  his 
dear  old  wife.  It  was  a  fact  that  was  plain  to  see, 
that  they  were  poor  and  unlearned.  But  throughout 
the  cabin  there  was  cleanliness,  and  in  everything 
they  said  and  did  there  was  gentleness  and  truth. 
There  was  something  about  the  kind  look  and  gentle 
spirit  of  Mrs.  Tolson  that  made  Paul  Waffington  think 
of  his  own  dear  mother  away  back  in  the  Kentucky 
valley.  The  good  that  was  in  him  asserted  itself,  and 
he  held  out  his  hand  and  said  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart : 

**Good-bye,  Mrs.  Tolson.  I  hope  that  we  may  meet 
again.  May  the  good  Lord  bless  you  and  yours. 
Good-bye." 

''Why,  honey,  whenever  you  air  a-travelin'  up  or 
down  this  here  gorge,  night  or  day,  don't  you  never 
pass  this  cabin-door  by.  Don't  you  never  do  it.  You 
come  right  over  here  an'  make  yourself  at  home.   An' 


46         GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS 

don't  you  never  holler  'fore  this  door  any  more  neither. 
But  you  march  right  over  here  and  take  a  chair,  jist 
the  same  ef  your  own  mother  wuz  astandin'  right 
there  inside.  Here,  take  this  sweetcake  along  with 
you.  You  might  git  a  little  hungry  along  'bout  the 
spring  up  the  gorge,  an'  it'd  keep  you  frum  starvin' 
maybe.  You'll  git  to  Blood  Camp  'fore  night.  Good- 
bye." 

He  swung  himself  out  into  the  road  and  walked 
along  at  a  lively  gait.  Just  as  he  made  the  first  turn 
out  of  sight  of  the  cabin,  if  he  should  have  been  dis- 
posed to  stop  and  listen,  he  might  have  heard  Mrs. 
Tolson  fulfilling  her  promise  of  the  night  before  to 
Cicero  and  Caesar. 

The  road  before  him  now  assumed  the  appearance  of 
one  long  arbor.  It  was  lined  with  tall  hemlocks  and 
banks  of  rhododendrons  grew  between.  At  the  edges 
of  the  road  giant  ferns  waved  to  and  fro  in  the  fresh 
morning  air.  Then,  too,  if  seemed  that  the  gorge 
Vv'as  literally  alive  w4th  song-birds.  Apparently,  from 
every  tree  birds  were  pouring  forth  their  morning 
song.  The  traveler  slackened  his  pace  a  bit,  removed 
his  hat  and  carried  it  in  his  hand  as  he  went,  enjoying 
all  nature  to  the  limit  of  his  capacity.  Now  he  lin- 
gered to  pluck  a  bunch  of  trailing  moss  that  hung  over 
a  fallen  tree.  This  July  morning  he  was  comparatively 
rested  in  body  and  mind,  hence  he  was  keenly  alert  to 
everything  in  nature's  world,  and  it  all  brought  happi- 
ness to  his  soul. 

How  the  heart  of  the  thin  and  pale-faced  city  clerk 
yearned  for  such  a  retreat  as  this,  thought  Waffington. 
How  those  of  the  torrid  cities,  who  bake  their  feet 
against  the  blistering  pavements  and  burn  their  faces 
against  the  scalding  walls,  would  welcome  this  haven 
of  rest  among  the  wild  flowers  and  singing  birds.    The 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS         47 

gentle  breezes,  the  babbling,  splashing  water  falling 
into  the  deep  pools  and  the  shady  recesses,  would 
cool  their  fevered  temples. 

For  three  hours  or  more,  perhaps,  the  traveler  kept 
his  way  with  uncovered  head,  enjoying  the  matchless 
beauties  of  nature's  world,  with  never  a  discordant 
note.  At  the  noontide  he  came  up  before  the  spring 
in  whose  depth  many  a  traveler  before  had  quenched 
his  burning  thirst.  It  stood  up  in  the  rock,  a  basin 
cut  out,  moss-covered  to  its  very  brim.  Crystal  water 
overflowed  the  rim  and  trickled  down  through  the 
moss  and  fell  into  the  pool  below.  Paul  Wafhngton 
knelt  down  and  quenched  his  thirst  in  its  depth,  then 
seated  himself  on  a  log  near  by  to  rest  and  devour 
the  "sweetcake"  that  Mrs.  Tolson  had  given  him  in 
the  early  morning.  He  must  be  getting  now  within 
some  ten  miles  of  Blood  Camp,  he  thought,  munching 
the  cake  in  silence.  He  wished  that  he  might  meet 
someone  who  could  tell  him  the  things  that  he  wanted 
to  know  of  Blood  Camp.  But  he  had  met  but  one 
other  traveler  during  the  morning,  and  that  was  the 
mail-rider,  who  was  going  himself  in  the  direction  of 
Blood  Camp  at  a  fast  gallop. 

"What's  that !"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  straining  his 
ears  to  hear. 

"Ho-de-o-do,  ho-de-o-de ;  ho-de-o-do,  ho-diddle-de-de  !" 

It  was  the  echo  of  the  voice  of  a  boy  coming  down 
the  gorge  from  the  direction  of  Blood  Camp. 

"Ho-de-o-do,  ho-de-o-de ;  ho-de-o-do,  ho-diddle-de- 
de  I  Now  watch  at  ye  !  Stan'  up  here  !  Ef  you  stump 
your  toe  an'  fall  down  an'  throw  me  oflF,  I'll  git  down 
an'  git  me  a  club  an'  knock  your  dang  head  ofif!  Git 
up,  Moll!" 

Just  then  an  old  gray  horse  came  bouncing  into 
view  around  the  turn  of  the  road,  with  a  boy  perched 


48         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

between  its  bony  shoulders  and  projecting  hip  bones. 
The  boy  was  perhaps  thirteen  years  old,  wore  a  rim- 
less straw  hat,  with  bare  feet  and  lips  stained  with  tobacco 
juice. 

"Good  morning,  my  boy,"  saluted  Paul  Waffington. 

"Whoa,  Moll !  Howdy,"  he  replied,  as  he  drew  up  be- 
fore the  spring.    ''You're  takin'  a  rest,  air  ye?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Resting  and  eating  this  cake  for  dinner; 
have  a  bit  of  it.  It's  pretty  good.  Mrs.  Tolson,  who 
lives  down  at  the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  gave  it  to  me 
this  morning." 

The  boy  suddenly  threw  the  piece  that  he  had  taken 
to  the  ground  with  a  vim,  spat  out  the  portion  in  his 
mouth,  and  yelled  out : 

"Danged  ef  I  eat  any  of  it  then !" 

"Why,  my  boy,  what's  wrong  with  the  cake?" 

"I  hate  them  two  dang  Tolson  boys.  They  fight  me. 
I've  licked  'em  eleven  times — Caesar  six  an'  Cicero 
five — an'  doan't  you  never  think  that  I'll  ever  eat  a 
cake  or  anything  else  that  their  mammy  has  made,"  and 
he  came  down  with  his  fist  on  the  bony  shoulder  of 
the  gray  mare  as  emphasis. 

"Do  you  know  that  it  is  wrong  to  use  profane 
language — to  curse." 

"W^hat?  Dang  it  cussin'?  That  ain't  cussin'.  That 
ain't  a  starter  to  real  cussin'.  Ef  you  call  that  cussin' 
it  wouldn't  do  fur  you  to  hear  Fen  Green  git  started 
a  little." 

"Is  that  tobacco  you  are  chewing?" 

"Yep." 

"What  do  you  chew  tobacco  for?" 

"None  o'  your  bizness.    Whoa,  Moll,  I  say!" 

"What's  vour  name?" 

"Boz." 

"What's  that  you  said?" 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS         49 

"I  said,  Boz." 

"Oh,  yes,  Boaz." 

"Yep.    What's  your  name?" 

"Is  that  all  the  name  you  have,  Boaz?" 

"Course  not.     Boaz  Honeycutt  is  all  my  name." 

"Where  do  you  live,  Boaz?" 

"Blood  Camp,  an'  I  can  lick  every  boy  my  size  from 
Blood  Camp  to  the  mouth  of  this  here  gorge.  By 
giggers,  I  can  lick  Cicero  Tolson  quicker  than  a  bull- 
frog can  snatch  a  fly  off'n  a  grass-blade !"  He  turned 
the  quid  of  tobacco  over  in  his  mouth,  spat  over  the 
gray   mare's  head   and   asked : 

"But  what's  your  name,  I  said?" 

"Well,  my  name  is  Waffington — Paul  Waffington." 

"Well,  I  wisht  I  may  drap  ded !  I  thot  I  had  seed 
you  before.  Oh  yes,  you  air  the  feller  what  organized 
the  Sunday-school  up  to  Blood  Camp  'bout  two  year 
ago.  Well,  I  wisht  I  may  die !  I  knowed  thet  I  had  seed 
you  before.  Well,  Emeline  Hobbs  has  shore  kept  thet 
school  agoin',  an'  said  she  wuz  agoin'  to  keep  it  agoin'  un- 
til you  cum  back,  ef  it  took  a  milun  year.  But  I  shore 
am  glad  thet  you  air  agoin'  back  up  there.  I've  bin 
a  tendin'  Sunday-skule  every  Sunday  fur  nine  months 
'cept  two.  Once  I  wint  a  chestnut  huntin'  and  tother 
I  v/int  in  swimmin'  with  a  passel  of  boys.  But  I  de- 
cided to  quit  the  skule  next  Sunday  ef  you  didn't 
come.  I  like  the  skule  very  well  an'  I  like  the  lessons 
middlin'  well;  but  every  time  I  look  out  the  door 
or  spit,  Emeline  Hobbs  jabs  me  on  my  shins  with  that 
wooden  pin  o'  her'n,  an'  my  legs  air  sore  frum  it ; 
an'  ef  she  wuz  a  boy  I'd  a  tanned  'er  up  fur  it  a  long 
time  ago.  Now,  I  want  you  to  git  her  to  quit  jabbin' 
me  on  my  shins,  git  another  superintender  or  I'm  quit 
alreadv  now," 


50         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

"Well,  Boaz,  you're  a  better  boy  than  many  boys, 
I  am  sure.  There  are  boys  to  be  found  who  do  not 
go  to  Sunda3^-school.  I'm  glad  to  know  that  you  have 
made  such  a  fine  record  in  the  matter  of  attendance. 
Now  tell  me,  how  are  all  the  others  at  Blood  Camp?" 

''Well,  about  as  usual.  Uncle  Laz  still  keeps  the 
school-house  swept  for  Emeline  an'  his  old  woman  still 
irons  clothes  fur  people.  The  Allisons  air  still  keepin' 
tavern  whin  anybody  comes  along.  Fen  Green's  at- 
tendin'  a  little  patch  of  taters  and  corn  upon  his 
mammy's  place  since  she  died.  The  old  fiddler  cum 
since  you  wuz  here.  He's  a  fine  'ne,  too.  They  say 
he's  the  finest  fiddler  m  the  world,  an'  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised.  Fen  Green  goes  to  see  Genie  Filson  every 
Sunday.  He  'lows  thet  he  will  get  Jase's  word  to 
marry  Genie  about  Christmus.  Jase  likes  Fen  mighty 
v/ell.  But  I  don't  see  Genie  any  more.  Jase  stopped 
her  frum  comin'  to  Sunday-skule.  People  say  thet 
she  don't  look  as  well  as  she  used  to.  Some  say  thet 
Jase  is  aworkin'  her  to  deth,  but  Jase  says  she  is 
agrievin'  herself  to  deth  over  her  two  brothers  who 
wint  wxst  an'  wuz  never  heard  fum  any  more,  is  what's 
amakin'  her  look  so  bad." 

He  took  a  bit  of  tobacco  from  his  pocket  and  added 
it  to  what  he  already  had  in  his  mouth,  and  then  con- 
tinued: 

**But  Fen  Green  ain't  no  account  fur  Genie  as  a 
man.  Fen  Green  ain't  worth  shucks !  He  couldn't 
set  a  goose  on  a  hillside  'thout  putting  the  rocks  on 
the  upper  sfde.  I  could  stick  a  gourd  on  the  end  of 
a  fence  rail  and  learn  it  more  sense  than  Fen  Green's 
got.    Whoa,  Moll !     But  by  giggers,  I  got  to  go." 

"Well,  I  thank  you  for  your  information.  And  now 
I  hope  that  you  w^ill  be  at  Sunday-school  next  Sun- 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  51 

day.     You  are  a  promising  boy,   Boaz.     You  might 
make  a  great  man,  perhaps  a  great  preacher." 

"No,  siree.  I  couldn't  learn  to  kote  (quote)  Scrip- 
ture fast  enough." 

"I  presume  that  you  have  learned  a  lot  of  Scripture 
in  the  Sunday-school?" 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  have  learned  to  kote  a  little, 
maybe." 

"Here's  a  five-cent  piece,  Boaz.  I  want  to  hear  you 
quote  a  verse  or  two  of  the  Scriptures.  If  you  can 
do  it,  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  five-cent  piece,  and 
when  you  reach  the  town  you  may  buy  with  it  what- 
ever you  may  wish.     Now  let's  have  the  verse." 

The  boy  looked  at  the  coveted  coin  in  the  hand  of 
the  man.  He  had  never  been  in  possession  of  so  large 
a  piece  of  money  before.  His  heart  thumped  heavily 
as  he  shut  one  eye  and  sighted  with  the  other  one 
through  the  ears  of  the  gray  mare  at  a  rock  in  the 
road  just  in  front,  in  a  feeble  attempt  to  steady  his 
nerves. 

"Well.  I'll  try  a  verse.  'He — he — he  throwed  him 
over  the  wall — the  Lord  throwed  a  man  over  the 
wall,  an'  he  throwed  'im  over  again — then  he  throwed 
'm  over  the  wall  seventy  times  seven ;  then  the  dogs 
cum  an'  licked  all  his  sores — an' — an' — an'  there  re- 
mained of  the  fragments  thereof — twelve  basketful.'  " 

"Paul  Waffington  fell  over  on  the  moss-covered  log 
and  held  his  sides. 

"You're  a  fine  one,  Boaz,  you're  a  fine  one.  Success 
will  come  to  you  in  time,  my  boy.  Just  keep  it  up. 
Here,  take  the  money  and  buy  candy  or  whatever 
you  like  when  you  reach  the  town." 

"I  got  to  hit  the  road  now.     Killed  too  much  time, 


52         GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS 

I  guess;  an'  then  I  may  have  to  fight  them  Tolsons 
down  the  gorge  about  another  hour  'fore  I  git  to 
go  on.  Started  to  Mountain  City  to  git  fall  turnip 
seed  and  have  this  plow-pint  sharpened."  He  drew 
up  his  reins,  took  from  his  pocket  three  ripe  apples, 
selected  the  finest  one  and  began  munching  it. 

"Why  don't  you  eat  the  smallest  one  first  and  save 
the  best  until  the  last,  Boaz?"  inquired  Wafiington. 

'*No,  sir.  You're  wTong  there,"  said  the  boy.  "Eat 
the  best  first  an'  you'll  be  eatin'  the  best  all  the  time. 
Git  up,  Moll !  Git  up !"  and  away  He  went,  disappear- 
ing through  the  trees. 

Paul  Waffington  sat  alone,  stunned.  He  was 
puzzled. 

"Eat  the  best  first,"  he  repeated,  "and  you  will  be 
eating  the  best  all  the  time."  Plis  brain  cleared,  he 
smiled,  and  said,  "He's  right.  That's  a  lesson  from 
a  country  boy,  and  it's  a  good  one,"  and  he  got  up 
to  go. 


CHAPTER   VIII 
The  Response  to  Duty's  Call 

Another  day  had  grown  old  and  was  peacefully  dying 
in  the  west  as  our  hero  drew  near  unto  the  goal  of  his 
heart.  In  the  early  morning  he  had  come  forth  rested, 
with  an  elastic  step,  bright  and  happy.  But  the  torrid 
heat  of  the  noon-day  had  steadily  followed  him,  and 
evening  had  brought  him  hither  with  weary  limbs. 
He  emerges  from  the  gorge  and  slowdy  mounts  the 
little  knoll  that  overlooks  the  village. 

"At  last!"  he  exclaimed  with  delight.  The  fatigue 
of  the  trying  day  overcoming  him,  he  sinks  down  upon 
a  stone  to  rest  and  study  the  village  that  now  lay 
before  him. 

Bathed  in  the  yellow  sunlight  of  the  dying  day, 
there  lay  before  him  the  goal  that  he  had  been  so 
laboriously  trying  to  reach  for  more  than  thirty-six 
hours.  To  his  eye  there  were  not  many  changes  visible  in 
Blood  Camp.  To  his  left  he  could  plainly  see  the  two  little 
rooms  in  which  dwelt  alone  Miss  Emeline  Hobbs,  the 
Sunday-school  superintendent.  Since  the  death  of 
her  fath'^'-  and  mother  five  years  before  she  had  lived 
there  alone,  yet  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the  cabin 
of  Uncle  Lazarus  and  Aunt  Mina.  The  door  of  her 
house  stood  open,  and  Paul  Waffington  could  make 
out  the  figure  of  a  woman  in  the  excuse  of  a  garden 
at  the  side.  For  a  moment  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
figure  among:  the  vines  and  vegetables,  then  the  figure 
gave  a  limp,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  no  other  than 
Emeline  Hobbs  herself.    A  little  further  to  the  left 


54         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

was  the  school-house,  and  just  about  it  the  chestnut 
grove  and  the  grave-yard.  To  his  right  stood  the 
blacksmithshop,  the  store,  and  Slade  Pemberton's 
home  and  the  tavern.  Then  lifting  his  eyes  he  beheld 
the  mighty  Snake  smiling  down  upon  him  in  silence. 
Again  his  eyes  swept  the  mountain,  and  half  way  down 
its  side  they  rested  on  the  cabin  of  old  Jase  Dillenburger. 
From  the  cabin's  rude  chimney  lazy  rings  of  smoke 
pushed  each  other  upward.  He  thought,  no  doubt, 
that  the  hands  of  Gena  Filson  had  built  the  fire  that 
made  the  smoke,  and  perhaps  at  this  very  moment 
she  was  busily  engaged  in  making  ready  the  supper 
for  old  Jase  Dillenburger  and  his  stout  wife. 

The  sudden  stop  of  the  clinking  ring  of  the  anvil 
in  the  blacksmith  shop  reminded  him  that  the  day 
was  nearly  done.  Then  roaring  cheers  came  up  from 
the  store,  and  men  and  boys  began  pushing  out  the 
door  in  bunches.  Fen  Green  was  recognized  among 
the  others,  and  there  was  among  the  number  a  new 
one,  the  old  fiddler,  hence  the  ringing  cheers.  Slade 
Pemberton  is  the  last  to  emerge  from  the  store.  He 
closed  and  locked  the  door  and  walked  away  towards 
his  home.  But  groups  of  lazy  and  idle  men  still 
linger  about  the  platform  of  the  store  to  hear  "Jist 
one  more  tune  before  we  go,"  as  Fen  Green  had  said. 
Then  another  final  cheer  goes  up,  and  every  man 
turns  about  and  goes  towards  his  own  place.  Day's 
glittering  train  glides  down  the  mighty  mountain, 
passes  by  and  enters  the  gorges  of  twilight,  and  sends 
its  messenger — a  peaceful  silence — over  the  hamlet. 

"How  sweet  is  life !"  exclaimed  Paul  Waffington,  as 
he  arose,  trudged  down  the  knoll  into  the  village  and 
turned  in  at  the  tavern  gate. 

The  Allisons  who  kept  the  tavern  greeted  him  cor- 
dially.   Supper  was  ready  and  he  went  into  the  dining- 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS         55 

loom  with  a  gnawing  appetite.  Supper  over,  he  con- 
cluded that  he  would  pay  a  little  visit  to  Miss  Emeline 
Hobbs  and  Uncle  Lazarus  and  Aunt  Mina,  in  order 
that  he  might  have  some  definite  word  as  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  Sunday-school. 

"Oh,  go  'way !  Oh,  oh,  go  \vay ! !  No,  no,  doan' 
go  'way.  Oh ! ! !  De  Lawd  help  my  po'  black  so'l ! 
Is  yo'  a  gos'?  Or  is  it  Puolly  yo'  you'self,  ^lassa  Waf- 
fington?"  Aunt  Mina  stood  in  the  middle  of  her  one- 
room  cabin,  with  both  hands  up  and  her  big  eyes  di- 
lating until  all  the  whites  were  visible.  Then  re- 
covering herself  somewhat,  she  put  back  her  glasses 
on  her  forehead,  dropped  her  big  fat  hands  to  her 
hips,  and  gazed  at  the  man  in  the  door  again.  'T 
showly  do  believe  dat  it  is  Puolly  yo'  yo'self.  -  De 
good  Lawd  be  praised.  Come  right  in  he'ar  an'  let  yo' 
ole  black  mammy  see  yo'  face.  It  is  Puolly  yo'  yo'self. 
I — I — I  sed  yo'd  come.  I  sed  yo'd  come  back.  Laz 
said  yo'd  come.  De  good  Lawd  be  praised,  it's  yo' 
yo'self."  She  turned  to  the  rear  door  of  the  cabin 
and  put  out  her  head  in  the  gathering  darkness  and 
called  out: 

"Laz,  Laz!  run  he'ar  dis  minit — right  now!"  and 
then  turning  back  into  the  room  she  continued,  "Miss 
Emeline  hed  jis'  'bout  give  yo'  out.  Some  said  you'd 
come  back  an'  some  said  yo'  wouldn't.  Laz  has  kept 
de  house  clean  an'  de  fires  goin'  in  winter,  an'  Miss 
Emeline  has  kept  de  school  agoin'.  Laws,  I'se  afeared 
dat  she'll  break  dat  wooden  peg  whin  she  hears  dat 
yo'se  come."  She  untied  the  red  handkerchief  and 
removed  it  from  her  head,  readjusted  her  glasses  on 
her  nose,  and  stood  oft  a  little  distance  looking  down  at 
Paul  Waffington,  her  old  black  face  glowing  with 
happiness. 


56         GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS  , 

"So  glad  'use  come,  Massa,"  was  the  greeting  of 
the  old  colored  man.  "We  all  needs  you'.  De  little 
gurl  up  dar  on  de  mountain  side  needs  you'  mos', 
tho'." 

The  two  men  walked  out  through  the  door  into 
the  garden  together,  Waffington  and  the  black  man. 
On  up  through  the  winding  path  the  black  man  led 
the  white,  through  the  wicker  gate  and  into  the  chest- 
nut grove  and  the  grave-yard. 

"I  wanted  to  come  up  hear  with  yo'  an'  sho'  yo' 
somethin',  Massa  Waffington,"  said  the  old  black  man. 
They  finally  came  up  to  a  giant  chestnut  tree.  At 
the  trunk,  the  old  black  man  pointed  to  a  hard,  slick 
barren  spot  at  the  base  of  the  tree,  that  was  just 
visible  in  the  growing  darkness. 

"What  made  the  hard  worn  spot.  Uncle  Lazarus?" 
inquired  Paul  Waffington. 

"Dese  ole  knees,  Massa  Waffington,  dese  ole  knees," 
he  said,  standing  with  his  head  bowed  down  to  the 
ground.  Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  into  the 
face  of  the  white  man  as  he  continued :  "Eber  evenin' 
after  my  chores  is  done,  for  mo'n  a  year,  Massa  Waf- 
fington, I'se  come  up  hear  an'  dropped  dese  ole  knees 
down  hear  an'  prayed  fo'  yo',  Massa.  I'se  prayed 
dat  yo'  would  come  back.  I'se  prayed  dat  yo'  would 
be  spaired  an'  come  back  to  Blood  Camp  an'  help  us. 
Miss  Emeline  needs  yo',  and  I  need  yo',  an'  we  all 
need  yo'  so  bad.  Den,  Massa,  dat  leetle  gurl  up 
yandar  on  de  mountain  side  needs  yo'  help  worse  dan 
all  de  res'." 

Together  they  walked  back  towards  the  gate.  Paul 
Waffington  had  spoken  in  reply  not  a  word.  He  was 
turning  in  his  mind  problems  for  solution. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  prayers,  Uncle  Lazarus.     I 


GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS  h7 

appreciate  them,  I  thank  you  for  them,  and  you  are 
a  good  man." 

"An'  now  'fore  we  part,  i'se  anoder  thing  dat  I  want 
to  ax  yo',  Massa,  while  we  is  out  he'ar  together^  ef  yo' 
will  bear  with  this  'ole  black  man,"  he  ventured,  as  they 
neared  the  gate. 

"Why,  certainly,  Uncle,  certainly.  Why,  I  would  be 
willing  to  have  you  ask  me  questions  all  the  night  through, 
if  only  I  could  answer  them." 

"I'se  done  knowed  dat  dis  'ole  black  man  aint  gwine  ter 
be  he'ar  many  mo'  summers  at  mo's.  I'm  gettin'  mighty 
feeble,  Massa.  My  jints  is  growin'  stif,  an'  i'se  all 
weighted  down  wid  years.  Here  lately  i'se 
bin  wantin'  to  kno'  mo'  'bout  dat  odder  worl'  away 
off  up  yander  som'ers.  Atter  I  gits  da  school-house 
swept  out  Sunday  mornin's,  I'se  bin  stayin'  an'  a 
hearin'  Miss  Emeline  a  tellin'  'bout  it  to  da  chirens. 
I'se  bin  longin'  to  ax  yo'  'bout  it,  den  I'll  be  satisfied. 
Is  dar  any  good  place  fo'  an  ole  black  man  like  me 
away  off  in  dat  country?"  The  feeble  old  man  lifted 
his  thin  eyes  and  looked  into  Paul  Waffington's  face 
for  an  answer  with  all  the  yearning  of  his  soul. 

"Yes,  there  is.  Uncle  Lazarus,"  came  the  answer, 
in  low,  gentle  tones. 

"De  good  Lawd  be  praised.  Tse  ready  to  die,"  he 
shouted,  turning  his  black  face  to  the  starry  heavens 
in  humble  thanksgiving. 

It  was  dark  now,  and  the  stars  came  out  and  looked 
as  bright  as  gold.  Paul  Waffington  looked  up  at  the 
peaks  of  the  mighty  Snake  and  at  the  myriad  of 
stars  beyond,  and  was  grateful  for  all.  Near  by  the 
gate  he  stopped  and  reverently  removed  his  hat  as 
he  looked  upon  a  grave  whose  turf  was  now  growing 
old.  For  a  full  minute  he  stood,  when  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  black  man. 


58         GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS 

''Under  dat  moun',  Massa  Waffington,  res'  de  body 
of  de  bes'  woman,  de  bes'  mudder,  dat  eber  lived  in 
dis  worF.  Many  is  de  time  dat  dis  ole  nigger  man 
has  waded  thro'  de  snow  deeper  den  my  knees  an' 
gone  an'  fixed  firewood  fo'  her  an'  dat  little  angel 
Genie  to  keep  warm  by,  when  Joe  wa'  wild  an'  bad. 
Hundreds  ob  dark  winter  nights  I'se  rocked  an'  sung 
to  dat  little  baby  Genie,  sung  to  her  'bout  bettar 
times  whin  she'd  be  a  woman."  Then  he  went  on 
half  aloud:  "But  dem  bettar  times  fo'  dat  little  body 
aint  nebbar  come  yit.  Aye,  Massa,  bes'  heart  dat 
ebber  beat  lays  der  asleep  under  dem  daisies." 

They  walked  out  through  the  wicker  gate  together. 
Each  was  engaged  with  his  thoughts. 

"If  I  can  do  anything  to  make  life  easier  for  Gena 
Filson,  I  am  going  to  do  it,  Uncle  Lazarus.  I  know- 
that  Jason  Dillenburger  is  mistreating  his  adopted 
daughter.  I  know,  too,  that  to  cross  Jase  Dillen- 
burger's  path  means  death  perhaps.  But  both  Gena 
and  Jase  invited  me  to  come  to  see  them  when  I 
returned  to  Blood  Camp,  therefore,  I  have  decided 
to  go  up  tonight  and  pay  my  respects  to  Jason  Dil- 
lenburger and  his  adopted  daughter.  Jase  has  naught 
against  me,  and  I  believe  that  he  will  truly  be  glad 
to  see  me.  Good  night,  Uncle  Lazarus,"  he  called, 
as  he  turned  from  the  gate. 

"Jus'  one  mo'  question  from  dis  ole  black  man  fo' 
yo'  go,  Massa,  jus'  one  mo'." 

"Why,  Uncle,  two  of  them  if  you  wish,"  came  the 
good-natured  reply. 

"My  mind  has  been  pesterin'  me  a  heap  o'  late  'bout 
a  question.  I — I  want  to  ax  yo'.  Where  is  de  modder 
ob  dat  little  Genie  tonight?    Is  she  at  res'?" 

For  a  moment  Paul  Waffington  stood  in  the  night 
with  his  eyes  penetrating  the  darkness  that  filled  the 


GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS  59 

valley  below.  Then,  beckoning  with  his  hand  for  thd 
black  man  to  draw  near,  he  showed  him  the  mighty 
Snake  with  its  domes  and  peaks  that  stood  up  in  the 
starry  night.  Then  he  pointed  out  the  tall  pines 
that  waved  on  the  mountain  top,  then  the  stars  that 
twinkled  and  shimmered  beyond. 

*'Yes,  Uncle  Lazarus,"  he  finished,  "far,  far  beyond 
where  the  stars  come  forth  at  evening  time  in  their 
cars  of  gold,  there  lies  a  land  of  perennial  bliss.  A 
country  where  thinly  clad  mountain  mothers  never 
suffer  from  hunger  and  cold;  where  little  children  of 
the  poor  and  lowly  never  cry  for  bread ;  where  hard 
toiling  men  of  the  world,  if  they  be  faithful,  shall 
find  rest  under  the  shade  o.f  the  tree.  And  methinks, 
tonight,  in  the  border  of  that  congenial  clime,  the 
mother  of  Gena  Filson  dwells  budding  and  blooming — 
a  flower  more  beautiful  than  the  rose." 

He  let  loose  the  black  man's  arm,  closed  the  wicker 
gate,  and  went  his  way  through  the  starry  night. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Lifting  the  Yoke 

Paul  Waffington  inhaled  deep  draughts  of  the  crisp 
night  air  as  he  ascended  the  mountain  side,  and  was  re- 
freshed. He  had  been  glad  to  greet  the  folk  of  the  little 
village  after  two  long  years  of  absence.  Especially  glad 
to  learn  of  the  sticking  qualities  of  Miss  Emeline  Hobbs 
and  the  prosperity  of  the  little  Sunday-school.  With  all 
this  he  had  been  in  some  degree  satisfied.  But  there  was 
one  thing  still  for  which  he  had  a  longing  desire  to  know, 
and  that  one  thing  was,  how  went  life  with  Gena  Filson. 
Well,  he  soon  would  know,  and  with  renewed  energy  he 
mended  his  pace  up  the  mountain  side.  Half  way  up, 
he  stopped  and  looked  down  at  the  little  village  in  the 
dark  valley.  Some  two  or  three  faint  flickering  lights 
was  all  that  could  be  made  out.  The  laboring  men  of 
the  mountains  retire  early  and  arise  early.  Not  all  the 
fathers  of  the  Blood  Camp  neighborhood  idled  away 
their  time.  Many  of  them  were  logmen — men  who 
felled  trees  the  long  day  through,  winter  and  summer 
alike,  others  yoked  together  the  oxen  and  "snaked  in" 
the  logs  from  the  mountain  coves  so  they  could  be 
loaded  on  the  wagons  and  hauled  away  to  the  markets. 
But,  by  this  hour,  the  oxen  had  been  given  his  fodder, 
each  workman  had  sat  at  his  humble  board  and  partaken 
of  his  portion,  and  now  man  and  beast  had  gone  to  his 
bed  that  he  might  find  rest.  Under  the  shining  heaven's 
blue  Paul  Waffington  stood  upon  the  mountain's  side 
and  reflected  upon  it  all.    A  single  light  was  now  burn- 


GENA    OF   THE    APPALACHIANS         61 

ing  in  Blood  Camp.  He  watched  its  faint  glow — it 
flickered  now  and  went  out — Blood  Camp  is  at  rest. 

''What  if  old  Jase  should  resent  this  visit?"  he  thought, 
as  he  resumed  his  journey.  Well,  old  Jase  had  invited 
him  in  the  first  place  to  visit  his  home.  It  was  not  a  late 
hour — 7  \Z0  o'clock.  Rather  a  seasonable  hour  for  a 
summer  night's  call,  he  thought.  And,  further,  it  was 
perfectly  proper  for  him  to  accept  the  invitation  and 
pay  his  respects  to  Jase  Dillenburger  and  his  adopted 
daughter. 

But  what  could  he  do  for  Gena  Filson?  If  Jase  were 
willing  he  might  assist  her  to  a  scholarship  in  some  col- 
lege of  music.  She  had  gone  to  the  public  schools  until 
her  thirteenth  year,  but  that  was  little  indeed.  Then  her 
own  mother  had  been  a  Pennsylvania  school-teacher  and 
had  taught  her  little  daughter  much  at  home.  She  had 
once  even  said  that  she  was  fond  of  music.  Now,  if  old 
Jase  were  willing,  he  might  do  something  to  help  her  to 
get  a  musical  education.  But,  aye,  would  the  old  moun- 
taineer let  her  go,  if  the  college  were  found,  board  pro- 
vided and  tuition — and  all  paid  ?  Would  he  be  willing 
to  let  her  go  at  any  price?  Would  he  ever  let  her  go 
beyond  the  neighborhood  of  Blood  Camp,  for  any 
reason?  Well,  at  all  events,  thought  Paul  Waffington, 
he  would  do  the  best  that  he  could  for  her.  "Eat  the 
best  first"  was  the  maxirrf  of  Boaz  Honeycutt,  and  Paul 
Waffinj2fton  decided  that  he  would  "do  the  best  first"  for 
Gena  Filson.  In  fact,  he  meant  to  adopt  the  maxim  of 
Boax  Honeycutt  in  many  things  hereafter.  He  had  re- 
solved to  have  the  best  first  in  all  his  work  henceforth. 

"As  you  go  out  into  life,  remember,  Paul,  my  boy,  that 
the  parting  words  of  old  Professor  GoflF  in  the  college 
class-room  came  to  him  clear  and  plain : 

"As  you  go  out  into  life,  remember,  Paul,  my  boy,  that 
every  man  is  a^culptor.  Remember,  that  the  stones  which 


62         GENA    OF   THE   APPALACHIANS 

you  are  carving  are  the, people  wif:h  whom  VOU  ^0"^^*  ^» 

contact.  Each  deed  and  act  are  strokes  upon  the  chisel 
which  3^ou  will  hold.  Some  strokes  upon  the  chisel  will 
deface  the  stone  for  time.  Other  strokes  will  poHsh,  and 
carve  beauty  and  character.  Hold  your  chisel  at  such  an 
angle  and  apply  such  strokes,  my  boy,  as  will  bring  polish 
to  the  stones  and  happiness  to  the  world." 

These  grand  words  were  ringing  in  his  ears  tonight,  as 
he  put  out  his  hand  and  turned  the  latch  in  the  gate  in 
front  of  Jase  Dillenburger's  cabin.  At  the  first  click  of 
^the  latch,  the  great  watch-dog  flew  down  through  the 
yard  with  a  vicious  look.  But  Paul  Waffington  had  had 
experience  with  dogs  before.  Bringing  his  tact  quickly 
into  play,  he  saluted  the  great  mastiff  with  a  low,  gentle 
whistle,  and  they  were  friends  at  once,  without  a  single 
bark  from  the  dog.  He  wished  to  give  old  Jase  and  Gena 
a  complete  surprise  tonight.  Then,  too,  he  was  fearful, 
if  the  dog  should  give  warning,  that  old  Jase  might  mis- 
take him  for  an  officer  of  the  law  and  shoot  him  on  the 
spot.  How  he  would  surprise  them,  he  thought  at  last ! 
Would  not  Gena  be  glad  to  see  him  after  more  than  a 
year  of  absence?  Then  what  would  he  find  her  doing? 
Perhaps  reading  to  her  foster  father  from  some  cast-oflf 
weekly  paper  that  Slade  Pemberton  had  given  Jase. 
Maybe  she  was  singing  some  hymn  that  she  had  recently 
learned  in  the  Sunday-school. 

He  walked  lightly  up  to  the  door  and  put  his  hand 
out  to  knock 

"What's  that?"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

*'You  aint  no  account.  Your  old  sorry  daddy  before 
you  warn't  no  account.  He  warn't  nothin'  but  a  cold 
black  murderer.  That's  what  he  wuz,  an'  he  died  in  the 
pen,  ter  boot !  But  you're  mine  by  law,  an'  you've  got 
to  do  as  I  say.    You  aint  apayin'  fur  the  salt  'at  goes  in 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS         63 

yer  bread.  Sick?  Sick  nothin'.  Git  outen  that  bed. 
I'll  let  you  know  when  ter  go  ter  bed." 

Paul  Waffington  stood  at  the  cabin  door  and  heard  it 
all.  He  swallowed  down  a  great  lump  that  came  up  in 
his  throat,  and  his  heart  thumped  against  his  breast 
loud  and  fast.  He  clinched  his  fists  and  shoved  them 
deep  down  into  his  coat  pockets,  and  listened  again.  His 
ears  caught  the  begging  cry  and  pleading  of  the  girl  as 
she  lay  upon  her  hard  bunk. 

"I'm  so  sick,  daddy  Jase.  I'm  so  sick,  daddy  Jase.  I 
can't  get  up.  I  can't  get  up,  daddy  Jase.  Oh,  my  dear 
mamma,  if  you  would  only  come  back  and  take  me 
away !"  was  the  final  cry  that  came  so  feebly  from  the 
feverish  lips. 

The  old  mountaineer's  voice  grew  louder  and  more 
furious,  and  then  Paul  Waffington  heard  distinctly  the 
stroke ! ! !  The  door  flew  open  as  if  a  bolt  of  light- 
ning had  struck  it  as  Paul  Waffington  went  through. 

''Hold  on  there,  Jase  Dillenburger,  hold  on  there! 
Don't  you  strike  her  again,  don't,  don't,  don't  you  strike 
her  again,  I  say.  Yes,  I  know  that  you  can  kill  me.  You 
can  shoot  me  on  the  spot.  But,  Jase  Dillenburger,  don't 
you  forget  to  calculate  that  if  I  come  up  missing  I  have 
two  brothers  back  in  the  Kentucky  valley  that  will  hunt 
you  down  like  the  stealthy  fox  that  you  are.  They  will 
scour  this  continent  for  your  shaggy  head — aye,  they  will 
drag  the  sea  for  your  bones.  Don't  you  strike — don't, 
don't.  If  I  were  not  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian  I  would 
say  to  you,  begone  to  your  place,  you  imp  of  Satan^  and 
I  would  punctuate  it  with  this,"  and  he  shot  out  his  ath- 
letic fist  like  an  iron  shaft  within  an  inch  of  old  Jase 
Dillenburger's  nose  and  held  it  there,  glaring  into  the 
beady-black  eyes  of  his  savage  enemy  without  a  tremor. 
For  a  moment  they  both  stood  glaring  at  each  other. 
Then,  quick  as  a  flash,  Paul  Waffington  flew  to  the  bunk, 


64         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

snatched  the  sick  girl  in  his  arms  and  cleared  the  door, 
crouching  as  he  went,  expecting  to  be  shot  with  old  Jase's 
deadly  gun. 

He  evidently  had  judged  his  man  aright.  As  he  cleared 
the  door  old  Jase  reached  for  his  gun,  with  which  to 
bring  down  his  man.  But  as  the  hammer  of  his  gun 
came  back,  strong  arms  wound  around  him,  steel  bands 
snapped  together  over  his  wrists,  and  before  he  could  col- 
lect his  mind  three  men  had  their  hands  upon  him,  and 
the  "Spokesman  of  the  three  was  no  other  than  the  old 
fiddler  himself. 

"In  the  name  of  the  President  and  the  United  States, 
I  arrest  you,  Jason  Dillenburger,"  said  the  fiddler,  at  the 
same  time  exhibiting  the  badge  of  a  United  States  rev- 
enue officer. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  handcuffs  had  snapped  together 
around  the  wrists  of  Jase  Dillenburger  Paul  Waffington 
had  placed  Gena  Filson  between  clean,  white  sheets  on  a 
bed  in  the  home  of  Emeline  Hobbs.  The  people  of  Blood 
Camp  were  stirred  and  seemicd  conscious  of  some  great 
change  taking  place  in  some  inexplainable  way,  hence  it 
was  but  a  few  minutes  until  the  little  house  of  Emeline 
Hobbs  was  running  over  with  frightened  people. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  some  of  the  people  returned  to 
the  others  were  told  the  story  of  the  flight,  and  were  re- 
quested not  to  insist  on  going  into  the  sick-room,  for  the 
sake  of  the  sick  one.  Men  stood  about  in  groups  and 
shook  their  heads  while  women  spoke  out  boldly  and 
pitied  Paul  Waffington,  for  they  were  constrained  to  be- 
lieve that  Jase  Dillenburger  would  be  on  the  trail  of  him 
within  an  hour,  and  when  found  would  shoot  him  down. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  some  of  the  people  returned  to 
their  homes,  others  hung  about  the  sick-room  at  a  safe 
distance  to  see  if  Jase  Dillenburger  would  appear.     By 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  65 

and  by,  word  was  passed  out  from  the  sick-room  that 
Gena  Filson  was  burning  up  with  a  dreadful  fever  and 
that  she  was  then  dehrious.  It  was  certain  now  that  some 
grave  sickness  was  upon  her.  Paul  Waffington  sought 
out  Fen  Green,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  venture  to 
make  the  twelve  miles  through  the  dark  night  and  the 
gorge  for  the  doctor. 

**Fenton,  I  want  you  to  bring  the  doctor  when  you 
return  without  fail.  Gena  is  burning  up  with  fever, 
and  is  delirious.  Make  all  the  speed  that  you  possibly 
can,  Fenton,"  was  the  request  of  Waffington. 

'Til  bring  'im.  Don't  you  never  doubt  but  what  I'll 
bring  'im.  I'll  bring  'im,  dead  or  alive,  shore's  my  name 
is  Fen  Green,"  and  into  the  dark  and  dangerous  gorge 
he  turned  his  horse  at  a  fast  gallop. 

Every  living  soul  in  Blood  Camp  was  up  before  the 
sun  on  the  following  morning.  They  wished  to  get  a 
start  with  the  sun  and  see  what  new  things  the  day 
would  bring  forth. 

Not  long  after  the  store  had  opened  for  the  day,  a 
wagon  drew  up  in  which  were  seated  the  old  fiddler, 
Jase  Dillenburger  and  two  guards.  All  the  fathers  of 
Blood  Camp  had  gathered  at  the  store  to  see  the  going 
away  of  their  neighbor  Jason  Dillenburger  in  the  com- 
pany of  an  officer  of  the  law. 

**Boys,  the  next  time  a  man  comes  into  your  neighbor- 
hood fiddling  free,  be  careful,"  said  Bull  Jones,  the 
fiddler.  *T've  not  fiddled  here  for  more  than  a  solid  year 
for  nothing,  boys.  I  didn't  go  out  here  on  the  hills  dur- 
ing the  long  summer  days  and  plough  and  hoe  corn  with 
no  expectation  of  receiving  a  reward  in  the  end.  I've 
milked  every  cow  in  the  neighborhood,  hoed  most  of  the 
gardens,  planted  sugar-cane  and  played  the  fiddle  in  the 
store  there  by  the  week.    Remember,  boys,  that  somebody 


66  GENA    OF    THE-   APPALACHIANS 

always  has  the  fiddler  to  pay.    Good-bye,  boys,  and  good 
luck,"  and  the  officer  gave  the  signal  to  start. 

Old  Jase  had  sat  still  and  sullen  throughout  it  all.  He 
had  been  arrested  by  an  officer  of  the  law  for  moon- 
shining,  counterfeiting  and  several  other  violations.  He 
knew  that  he  would  now  go  to  prison  for  a  long  term 
of  years,  however  light  the  sentence  might  be.  He 
knew,  too,  that  he  was  old  and  that  he  would  never  live 
to  serve  out  his  time  and  return  to  Blood  Camp.  There- 
fore, as  the  wagon  moved  away,  he  turned  his  great 
shaggy  head  and  looked  at  Fen  Green  standing  on  the 
store  platform  and  called  out : 

"Fen,  don't  fergit,  thet  I  want  ye  to  have  Genie, 
Christmas,  ef  she  don't  die." 

The  shock  of  the  arrest  and  the  presence  of  an  officer 
in  her  home  was  too  much  for  the  little  stout  wife  of  old 
Jase.  Consequently,  she  gathered  up  a  few  of  her 
choicest  belongings  in  a  red  tablecloth,  threw  the  bundle 
over  her  shoulder,  and  made  her  way  back  across  the 
mighty  Snake  back  to  her  "people"  on  the  Catawba. 

"Never  liked  to  live  thar,  a  day  of  the  thirty  year  no- 
how," she  said. 

Many  long,  weary  weeks  went  by  at  Blood  Camp.  Paul 
Waffington,  Fen  Green  and  Emeline  Hobbs  watched  over 
the  sufferer  day  and  night  with  never  a  murmur.  Each 
day,  each  night,  the  faithful  Waffington  had  followed  the 
old  doctor  to  the  gate  and  asked  him  the  same  question : 

"How  is  the  patient,  doctor?" 

Each  time  in  reply  the  old  dcotor  had  shook  his  head. 
Business  was  hard  pressing  him  to  return  to  his  Knox- 
ville  home,  but  he  remained  at  the  bedside  of  the  sufferer. 
Then,  too,  he  had  failed  to  make  his  annual  visit  back 
to  Kentucky  to  see  the  home  folks.  He  had  duly  written 
to  his  mother  that  she  might  know   the  reason  of  his 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  67 

delay.     But  tonight  he  has   received  a  letter   from  her 
that  burns  him : 

"Hazel  Greex   Ky.,  July  4th,  19—. 
"Dearest  Paul: 

*'We  are  all  deeply  disappointed  to  learn  that  you  will 
not  come  home  this  summer.  Your  two  brothers,  your 
little  sister  and  your  father,  too,  have  all  made  mention 
of  it  and  expressed  disappointment.  I  fear  that  you  are 
unwell — and  are  doing  too  much. 

"We  have  looked  forward  with  dehght  to  the  time 
when  you  would  come  and  make  us  all  so  happy. 

"Your  little  schoolmate,  Imogene,  inquires  about  you 
most  every  week — and,  Paul,  she  has  grown  so  beautiful 
during  the  past  year. 

"Your  dear  father  is  not  well,  and  your  sister  says 
to  tell  you  to  come  home  soon.  I  miss  you  so  muchi, 
my  boy. 

"Let  no  one,  nothing,  come  between  us,  dear  son,  and 
may  Heaven  bless  my  boy. 

"Your  devoted  Mother." 

He  read  the  letter  again.  Getting  up  he  studied  the 
ground  between  his  feet  for  an  answer.  Then  looking 
up.  he  kissed  the  little  note,  put  it  into  his  pocket  and 
M-?1ked  away  towards  the  sick  room. 

"Yes,  I  will  go.    But — not — now,"  he  said,  as  he  went. 


CHAPTER   X 
Through  the  Ever  Changing  Scenes 

The  days  following  the  rescue  of  Gena  Filson  and 
the  period  of  her  convalesence  were  trying  ones  for 
the  humble  folks  of  Blood  Camp.  Without  excep- 
tion, every  man  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart  was 
glad  that  the  fingers  of  the  law  had  finally  reached  out 
and  taken  hold  upon  old  Jase  Dillenburger.  Yet,  for 
fear,  not  a  man  had  given  expression  to  the  fact  to  his 
next  neighbor. 

When  the  news  came  from  the  sick-room,  telling  of 
the  change  for  the  better,  the  convalescence  period,  then 
the  long  suspense  which  had  held  the  little  hamlet  in 
awful  reread  so  long  was  broken.  Darkness  dispersed, 
and  the  people  of  Blood  Camp  adjusted  themselves  to 
the  new  conditions,  and  turned  again  to  honest  toil  with 
contented  min^s  and  grateful  hearts. 

Since  Paul  Waffington  had  again  taken  his  leave,  the 
courts  had  decreed  and  or^''ered  that  the  cabin  and  three 
acres  of  land  that  belonsfed  to  old  Jase  Dillenburger 
should  pass  to  Gena  Filson,  and  forthwith  appointed 
Slarie   Pemberton   her  guardian  and   administrator. 

Slade  Pemberton  was  a  hard  man  of  the  hills.  He 
had  about  "held  his  own"  or  "kept  even,"  as  he  would 
say,  selling  goods  in  Blood  Camp,  and  perhaps,  he  had 
been  niggardly  with  it.  He  invariably  tied  the  twenty- 
five-cent  bag  of  brown  sugar  at  the  top  with  about  an 
inch  of  cotton  string,  instead  of  wrapping  the  bag  with  the 
string,  as  is  the  custom,  thereby  saving  a  few  inches 
of  wrapping-string.     But  with  Slade  Pemberton  twenty 


GENA    OF   THE    APPALACHIANS  69 

inches  of  cotton  string  saved  was  twenty  inches  made. 
More  than  one  mother  in  Blood  Camp  could  testify 
that  his  pound  was  short  and  his  yard  niggardly. 

Still  Slade  Pemberton  was  the  store-keeper,  and  the 
people  looked  up  to  him  in  a  way,  and  respected  him. 
Since  good  luck  had  favored  him  somewhat  lately,  and 
he  had  been  able  to  settle  his  back  accounts  with  his 
dealers  in  the  cities  and  thereby  reopen  his  store  for 
business,  he  had  tried  ever  so  hard  to  deal  justly  with 
all.  But  Slade  Pemberton  found  it  hard,  even  a  strain 
upon  him,  to  put  more  than  thirty-five  and  one-half 
inches  in  his  yard.  But  recently  he  had  attended  a  few 
sessions  of  the  Sunday-school  "Jist  to  hear  the  tunes — 
not  to  take  part,"  as  he  said.  But  the  tunes  seemed  to 
have  done  him  good.  The  Sunday-school,  the  new  adjust- 
ment of  life  in  Blood  Camp,  and  one  other  great  fact — 
the  fact  that  he  was  now  the  guardian  of  Gena  Filson — 
all  seemed  to  take  hold  upon  him  until  the  little  spark 
of  good  that  was  in  him  flamed  up  and  found  expression 
in  deeds  of  kindness. 

Without  further  delay,  he  had  the  cabin  on  the  moun- 
tainside cleansed  of  its  filth  and  the  greasy  and  germ- 
laden  furnishings  burned.  When  all  had  been  made 
clean,  the  serviceable  furnishings  were  arranged  in  their 
places,  a  few  new  things  bought  and  installed,  and  all 
was  made  ready  for  the  return  of  Gena  Filson.  Slade 
Pemberton  had  even  outdone  himself  in  the  matter  of 
kindness  for  Gena  Filson.  He  arranged  with  Emeline 
Hobbs  that  she  should  close  up  her  own  little  house  and 
go  with  Gena  on  the  mountain  and  be  her  housekeeper. 

When  the  day  arrived  for  Gena  Filson  to  returr  to  the 
cabin  and  make  it  her  future  home,  misgivings  were  in  her 
heart.  But  Slade  Pemberton  closed  and  locked  his  store 
and  accompanied  Gena  and  her  housekeeper  to  the  new 
home.    At  the  first  sight  of  the  old  home,  Gena  shrank 


70         GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

back  with  dread.  She  thought  of  the  awful  past,  of  her 
hard  master  Jase,  whom  she  had  seen  standing  in  the 
door  a  thousand  times. 

'*Ay,  it's  all  different  now,  Genie,  it's  all  different 
now,"  said  Slade  Pemberton,  as  he  led  the  way. 

She  came  up  and  took  a  look  through  the  little  door. 
She  saw  to  her  great  surprise  many  changes  in  that 
dismal  little  room.  It  looked  so  different,  so  clean  and 
really  sweet,  she  thought.  Then  it  was  to  be  her  home, 
it  was  her  home.  And  then  she  was  to  have  a  house- 
keeper, and  the  best  housekeeper !  And  it  all — all  the 
three  acres  of  corn,  potatoes  and  house — all  her  own. 

"All  for  me — all  mine!"  she  cried,  with  delight. 

It  was  the  first  evening  of  September  now.  She  had 
been  to  the  wood-yard,  where  she  had  filled  her  basket 
with  dry  chips.  Returning,  she  had  built  a  fire  for  the 
night  was  growing  chilly.  When  the  sun  was  high  the 
days  were  still  warm  and  pleasant,  but  the  nights  were 
growing  cold  and  tonight  there  was  dampness  in  the 
room.  Supper  was  over,  and  Emeline  Hobbs  was  busy 
putting  away  the  dishes  while  she  finished  the  fire. 
The  blaze  leaped  up  and  lent  a  cheerful  look  to  the  room 
as  she  sat  throwing  on  handfuls  of  chips. 

Gena  Filson  was  herself  again  now,  and  was  growing 
stronger  each  succeeding  day.  The  rose  was  coming 
again  to  her  cheeks  and  she  was  truly  grateful  for  her 
existence.  She  smiled  with  satisfaction  as  she  listened 
to  the  stub,  stub  of  Emeline  Hobbs'  wooden  peg,  as  that 
happy  soul  busied  herself  about  the  kitchen  work  hum- 
ming the  while  "Am  I  a  Soldier."  Then,  taking  a 
pailful  of  beans  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  she  began 
stringing  them  for  the  morrow's  cooking,  as  the  figure 
of  a  boy  appeared  in  the  open  door. 

"Howdy,  Genie?" 

"Why,   how   do  you   do,   Boaz.     Do   come   right   in. 


GENA    OF    THE    APPAT.ACHIANS  71 

Why,  Boaz.  this  is  the  first  •  time  you  have  come 
to  see  me  since — since  I  came  back  home.  I'm  so  glad 
that  you  have  come.     Have  this  chair,  Boaz." 

"Jist  leave  stan'.  Iz  Emeline  here?  I'd  a  come  sooner, 
but  I  knowM  Emeline  wuz  here.  I  don't  like  her 
much,  you  know.  You  know  thet  she  wuz  alius  a 
peckin'  on  me  in  Sunday-skule  for  sumthin'  or  'nother. 
Bui  she  ain't  done  it  as  much  lately  as  she  used  to. 
i\iaybe  she's  got  a  little  more  feelin'  fur  a  feller  or 
sumthin'.  I  jist  thot  I'd  come  up  and  fetch  you  these 
daisies,  ef  you  wanted  'em.  They're  about  all  gone. 
Found  these  over  by  the  big  stub  over  yander  on  Slade's 
hill.  I  started  up  here  more'n  two  hours  ago,  but  as 
J  cum  up,  I  saw  an  adder,  and  laid  them  daisies  down 
to  kill  'em,  an'  I  like  to  never  foimd  them  daisies  agin 
when  I  got  through  with  that  adder.  I  wisht  I  may  die, 
ef  I  didn't  hunt  an  hour  fur  'em  'fore  I  found  'em. 
But  I  found  'em." 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  the  kindness  you 
show  me?  I  do  love  daisies.  You  are  a  good  boy, 
Boaz,  and  a  dear  friend  to  me." 

"Yes,  you  bet  I'm  your  friend  all  right,  Genie,  an* 
don't  you  fergit  it,"  piped  Boaz.  "Course  I'm  jist  a  boy 
an'  can't  help  you  like  Mr.  Waffington  did  when  he  was 
here."  He  looked  into  the  fire  for  a  long  time,  turned 
over  his  quid  of  tobacco,  spat  in  the  ashes  and  gave  a 
jerk  at  his  head  as  he  continued:  "He's  gone  agin 
now,  though.  But  ef  I  wuz  a  man,  though,  I'd  show 
them  rowdies.  Fen  Green  an'  them,  how  to  impose  on 
you.  Genie.     Has  Fen  Green  bin  up  here  lately,  Genie?" 

"No,  I  think  not,  Boaz,"  she  replied,  and  went  on 
breaking  and  stringing  the  beans. 

"Well,  he's  acomin' !  I  hear  him  atellin'  the  boys 
down  to  the  shop  yisterday,  thet  he  was  agoin'  to  put 
on  his  new  celloi'  collar  and  his  new  striped  shirt  and 


72         GENA    OF   THE    APPALACHIANS 

fix  up  an'  come  upon  the  mountain  tomorrow  an'  see 
his  future  wife — Miss  Genie  Filson.     The  dang " 

''Oh,  Boaz!  You  mustn't!  I  didn't  think  that  you 
would " 

''Well,  I  didn't.  I  didn't  cuss.  Genie.  Not  hardly, 
I  didn't.  Don't  count  it  this  time.  But  you  ain't  afixin' 
to  marry  Fen  Green,  air  you.  Genie?" 

"Why,  no,  Boaz,  I'm  not  fixing  to  marry  anybody," 
she  simply  said. 

"O — o — o — oh  !"  he  said.  His  clenched  fists  relaxed 
and  he  stood  looking  into  the  fire.  Stooping  to  the  floor, 
he  picked  up  the  few  beans  that  had  been  carelessly 
dropped  to  the  floor,  threw  them  into  the  pail  and  said, 
"It's  gettin'  dark — I  got  to  go.  I'll  see  you  at  Sunday- 
skule  nex'  Sunday.  Good-bye,  Genie,"  and  he  disap- 
peared through  the  door  and  went  down  the  mountain 
side  like  a  flash.  She  ran  to  the  door  and  looked  after 
him.  Then  presently  there  came  to  her  ears  from  away 
off  down  the  mountain  side  the  familiar  tune: 

"Ho-de-o-do,  ho-de  o  de;  ho  de  o  do,  ho  diddle  de 
de."  Her  cheeks  flushed  crimson  as  she  smiled,  went  in 
and  shut  the  door. 

Gena  Filson  sits  by  her  own  fire  in  a  speculative  mood 
tonight.  Was  she  not  happy,  she  thought.  She  was 
now  her  own  mistress  in  a  sense,  free  to  do  in  most 
things — as  she  chose.  The  house  and  corn  patches  were 
hers ;  her  savage  old  master,  Jase,  was  now  behind  prison 
walls  making  reparation  in  some  degree  for  the  stripes 
that  he  had  laid  upon  her.  But  since  her  recent  illness; 
since  the  lifting  of  the  yoke  from  her  neck;  since  the 
new  era  in  Blood  Camp  life,  there  appeared  a  pain  in  her 
young  heart  not  without  a  cause.  Fen  Green  wanted  to 
marry  Gena  Filson,  and  she  was  aware  of  the  fact.  Oh, 
no;  she  could  never  marry  Fen  Green.  She  knew  not 
the  reason  why,  but  then,  that  could  never  be.     Then 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS  ^Z 

there  was  another  friend,  one  who  had  so  befriended 
her.  But  she  had  never  thought  of  marrying  him — of 
marrying  anybody.  Why,  she  thought,  Paul  Waffington 
had  never  even  hinted  that  he  cared  for  her  in  the  shght- 
est — and  much  less  thought  of  marrying  her.  But  whose 
name  was  it  that  was  on  her  lips  most  during  those  long 
hours  of  delirium?  To  whom  did  she  then  appeal  con- 
stantly for  help?  Who  was  it  that  she  pulled  down  over 
the  bed  and  begged  a  hundred  times  over  that  he  would 
not  let  old  Jase  beat  her  again?  Had  no  one  ventured 
to  tell  her  that  it  was  Paul  Waffington  ?  But  now,  as  she 
sits  looking  into  the  fire,  she  thinks  that  she  can  faintly 
recall  the  gentle  touch  of  soft  hands  and  a  sweet  reas- 
suring voice  bending  over  her,  constantly  telling  her  that 
no  harm  should  come  nigh  her.  And  as  she  reflects  upon 
it  all  tonight,  she  allows  her  heart  to  half  wish  that  Paul 
Waffington  loved  her.  But  perish  the  thought,  she  rea- 
soned. Had  he  not  returned  to  his  native  country  to  be 
with  those  who  honor  and  love  him  ?  Perhaps  tonight  he 
sits  at  the  festal  board  smiling  upon  her  whom  he  loves 
and  who  he  boasts  as  his  equal.  One  who  has  many 
graces,  refinement,  culture  and  sterling  character.  But 
no  matter,  thought  Gena  Filson,  he  had  befriended  her, 
?nd  she  resolved  now  to  ever  be  grateful  at  least  for  his 
friendship. 

The  fire  on  the  hearth  went  out ;  she  arose  and  went 
to  her  bed  with  the  first  gentle  call  of  love  throbbing  in 
her  bosom. 

On  the  following  day  Fen  Green  found  her  about  the 
flowers  in  the  yard.  She  was  preparing  to  take  up  many 
of  the  flowers  and  remove  them  into  the  house  for  the 
long  winter.  In  all  the  style  and  glory  of  which  Boaz 
Honeycutt  had  told  her  Fen  Green  came. 

''It's  mighty  pretty  day,  an'  ye  air  alookin'  well.  Genie. 
I'm  glad  ye  air  so  well.     I  hope  thet  ye  air  well  enough 


74  GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

to  lis 'en  with  some  sense  to  what  I'm  agwin'  to  say. 
Now,  will  yer  be  fair?" 

"Why,  yes,  Fen,  I  will  always  try  to  see  things  rightly," 
she  saici,  as  she  took  up  a  large  chrysanthemum  near  the 
gate. 

"Slade  Pemberton  is  atalkin'  of  you  agwin'  off  to 
skule.  Now  you  don't  need  no  more  skulin'.  You've  bin 
to  skule  an'  then  your  maw  learnt  you  a  lot  at  home.  You 
don't  need  no  more  learnin'.  Too  much  learnin'  roake^-. 
wimen  highfalutin.  An'  you  kiiow  theFliTwuz  the  will 
"of  j  ase  theTTlTC^a'n*  you  marry  at  Chrismus.  Now  what 
you  goin'  to  do  ?  You  ain't  agoin'  to  f orgit  adyin'  man's 
request,  air  ye?  He's  bin  took  to  prison,  an'  he's  too  old 
to  sarve  out  his  time  an'  come  back — so  he's  jist  as  good 
as  (jQQ.  I  won't  never  beat  ye  like  Jase  did,  neither.  I'll 
alius  keep  ye  plenty  to  eat  an'  ware.  An'  you  know  I 
have  a  little  farm  up  thar  on  the  hill,  with  plenty  of  corn, 
cabbage,  taters  and  sich  like.  Now  won't  thet  be  better 
than  goin'  ofi"  to  skule  an'  settin'  yerself  for  somebody 
thet  ye  can't  git?" 

"Fen,  I'm  not  thinking  of  marrying  anybody.  You 
have  befriended  me,  and  I  want  your  friendship.  1  need 
it,  especially  when  friends  are  so  few."  She  put  down  the 
spade  and  looked  away  off  down  the  mountain  side. 
Then  slowly  said :  "No,  Fen,  we  cannot  marry.  Here 
in  this  valley  below  us  are  girls  better  suited  to  you  than 
I.  Choose  you  a  wife  from  among  them,  and  prove  your- 
self worthy  of  her.  As  a  friend  you  can  help  me  and  as 
your  friend  I  will  try  to  help  you." 

"I  have  loved  you  an'  waited  fur  ye — an'  I  ain't  agoin' 
to  .eive  ye  up.  I'll  be  yer  friend,  an'  I'll  be  yer  lover  too — 
an'  I  hope  thet  ye'll  come  to  3''our  senses  some  day,"  he 
called  b?.ck  Dvev  his  shoulder  as  he  went  down  the  moun- 
tain side. 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  75 

The  time  came  when  Slacle  Pemberton  was  to  close  his 
store  and  make  another  trip  up  on  the  mountain  to  the 
cabin  of  Gena  Filson.  He  went  this  time  with  a  grave 
face  but  a  good  mission  in  his  heart. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  man,  Genie,  but  I'm  disposed  to 
do  the  best  for  ye  that  I  know.  I  wrote  Air.  Waffington 
fer  a  little  advice.  I  told  him  all  about  everything — thet 
1  had  been  appointed  your  guardian  an'  that  the  house 
an'  all  was  your'n,  and  that  you  could  sell  off  enough  of 
corn,  beans  and  a  few  other  things  to  send  you  to  skule 
off  somewhere  fur  a  whole  year  or  nearly  so.  Now  I've 
got  a  letter  here  from  him.  He  says  that  he  will  help  you 
to  get  a  scholarship.  Now,  I  come  up  to  see  you  an'  find 
out  from  you  ef  it's  your  own  mind  fer  you  to  go  off  to 
skule.  Now  ef  it  is,  then  Slade  Pemberton  is  goin'  to 
see  to  it  thet  you  git  to  go.  Ef  you  want  to  go  oft'  an' 
study  music  an'  a  few  other  things,  I  say  that  you  can 
go.  I'll  buy  in  your  corn  an'  other  things  mostly  myself. 
Emeline  can  go  back  to  her  own  home  while  you  are  gone. 
I'll  git  Uncle  Laz  to  take  care  of  the  house  while  you 
are  gone.  Now,  Genie,  you  jist  decide  about  this  to  suit 
yerself.  I'm  jist  Slade  Pemberton,  but  I'm  going  to  do 
right  by  ye,  Genie,  ef  I  know  what  right  is." 

''Oh,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  you  are  saying  it  I"  she 
cried,  joyfully.     "Oh,  if  I  could  only  go  to  school!" 

Slade  Pemberton  left  Gena  Filson  with  her  heart  all 
aflame  that  afternoon.  She  sat  on  the  tuft  of  grass  in 
her  own  yard  looking  down  on  the  hundreds  of  peaks  be- 
fore her,  and  wondered  how  it  would  all  seem  to  be  be- 
yond the  hills,  within  the  limits  of  some  great  city;  to 
push  one's  way  along  through  the  mighty  throngs  m  the 
congested  business  districts.  Then  college !  She  had  seen 
the  pictures  of  colleges  in  the  magazines  and  the  cata- 
logues— but  to  go  to  college !  that  would  be  altogether 
another  thing.     To  get  a  real  chance  in  life;  to  mingle 


76         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

with  the  learned  and  refined  people  of  the  world,  she 
thought,  could  not  fail  to  set  her  feet  upon  higher  planes 
of  service  and  endeavor  in  the  battle  of  human  life. 

At  last  the  desire  of  Gena  Filson's  heart  was  realized — 
she  went  to  college.  To  her  scanty  little  wardrobe  were 
added  three  cheap  dresses  that  she  and  Emeline  Hobbs 
had  hurriedly  made  by  candle-light.  All  were  at  length 
crowded  into  a  little  trunk  that  had  long  since  seen  more 
service  than  its  share,  and  Gena  Filson  climbed  upon  the 
wagon  seat  by  the  side  of  Slade  Pemberton  one  bright 
morning,  and  was  ready  to  leave  for  college. 

Once  more  the  hearts  of  all  Blood  Camp  were  made 
sad.  All  had  gathered  at  the  store  to  see  her  off.  Moth- 
ers forgot,  in  their  real  sorrow,  to  still  their  crying  chil- 
dren as  they  stood  on  the  store  platform,  holding  them 
in  their  arms — looking  on  with  downcast  hearts. 

All  had  been  made  glad  when  the  news  flashed  back 
that  Jase  Dillenburger  had  been  sent  to  prison.  All  had 
again  had  much  cause  for  thanksgiving,  when  they  found 
that  the  one  beloved  in  the  village  above  all  others — 
Gena  Filson — was  to  make  her  home  in  the  cabin  in  their 
midst.  But  now  that  she  was  going  away  to  be  gone  a 
very  long  period  of  time,  and  perhaps  never  to  return, 
was  too  much  for  them.  It  made  them  all  sore  at  heart. 
And  if  she  did  return,  would  she  be  the  same?  She 
would  be  above  them.  Fen  Green  had  said. 

"Be  a  good  girl,  honey,  an'  doan'  yo'  nebber  go  back 
on  de  folks  at  home.  No  matter  whar'  yo'  go  nor  what 
yo'  see,  doan'  nebber  fergit  'em.  De  is  mighty  rough 
folks,  but  ebber  one  has  good  hearts  an'  lobes  yo'.  An' 
honey,  doan'  yo'  forgit  yo'  ole  black  mammy.  I'll  be 
stan'in'  right  ober  der  in  de  do'ah  alookin'  fo'  yo'  whin 
yo'  come.     Good-bye,  honey." 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  71 

The  wagon  went  up  over  the  Httle  hill  and  out  of  sight. 
Fen  Green  jabbed  the  spur  into  his  horse's  side  and  shot 
away  in  the  opposite  direction^  yelling  as  he  went: 

"Let  'er  go — nobody  cares." 

For  a  time  the  others  stood  together  looking  at  the 
spot  just  where  the  wagon  disappeared,  as  if  they  were 
bound  together  under  the  spell.  But  after  a  time  the 
mothers  rewrapped  the  babies  in  their  shawls  and  re- 
signedly   returned   to   their   homes. 

Boaz  Honeycutt  remained  upon  the  store  platform 
alone.  He  had  not  seen  the  wagon  pass  out  of  sight 
over  the  hill.  He  had  strained  his  eyes  watching  the 
wagon  as  it  neared  the  hill-top,  and  finally,  when  he 
heard  the  words  come  ringing  back  to  him: 

"Good-bye,  Boaz;  don't  forget  me" — tears  filled  his 
eyes  and  put  the  wagon  out  of  his  vision.  For  a  long 
time  the  little  barefoot  boy  sat  without  a  stir.  Then, 
getting  up,  he  ran  his  hands  down  deep  into  the  bottom- 
less pockets  of  his  coat  and  slowly  walked  away. 


CHAPTER    XI 

The   Thrill   of   College   Life 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  commencement  exercises  in 
a  grand  old  Southern  college.  A  college  that  was 
founded  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  by  the  inde- 
fatigable and  persistent  Doak.  While  on  his  westward 
march  in  that  remote  ago  he  stopped,  laid  down  his  books, 
took  up  the  sword,  and  stood  before  his  countrymen  at 
Sycamore  Shoals  and  challenged  those  who  were  willing 
to  make  the  hazardous  risk,  and  charge  up  King's  Moun- 
tain, to  step  out  in  line !  Inspired  by  the  great  educator's 
patriotic  call,  brave  and  noble  hearted  men  filled  the  line 
in  the  twinkle  of  an  eye.  Thus  it  was  that  the  im- 
mortal Doak  did  his  part  to  win  that  glorious  victory. 
But  not  even  the  glory  of  that  great  victory  could  di- 
vert him  from  his  path  of  plain  duty  before  him.  Hence 
he  again  gathered  up  his  books  and  continued  his  jour- 
ney, through  the  mountain  gaps  and  down  into  the  gorges 
he  went,  finally  settling  in  the  Valley  of  the  Tennessee — 
immediately  founding  a  college  and  giving  the  remainder 
of  his  life  for  the  cause  of  education. 

In  a  little  room,  with  its  snowy  white  walls  and  fur- 
nishings, on  this  self-same  college  campus,  we  find  today 
the  heroine  of  this  humble  narrative  making  final  prepa- 
rations for  her  humble  part  in  the  ninety-first  commence- 
ment exercises. 

At  first,  the  trial  of  college  life  had  been  a  very  hard 
one  for  Gena  Filson.  To  make  the  attempt  of  adapting 
herself  to  college  life  was  in  a  comparative  way  like 
changing  worlds  with  her.     There  were  rules  and  regu- 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  79 

lations  until  her  head  was  in  a  whirl.  There  was  a  daily 
programme — a  time  to  rise ;  a  time  to  recite ;  a  time  for 
supper ;  a  time  to  retire — a  time  for  everything  it  seemed ! 
System  !  System  was  something  new  with  her.  Then  she 
had  been  repelled  by  the  rebuffs  of  older  and  more  ad- 
vanced college  students.  The  young  ladies  of  better  ward- 
robes had  at  first  passed  her  with  haughty  spirits.  In 
fact,  nearly  everyone  had  been  guilty  in  speaking  in  a 
jesting  manner  of  the  scanty  wardrobe  that  was  hers. 

But  as  the  days  went  by  Gena  Filson  proved  herself 
equal  to  the  arduous  tasks  that  were  before  her.  Inch 
by  inch,  she  won  her  way  among  them.  First  she  won 
a  friend — then  a  second — the  while  holding  on  to  the  first 
with  ever  so  much  care.  In  short,  the  application  of  Gena 
Filson's  mind  to  her  work;  the  physical  culture  that  she 
daily  received;  system  and  the  constant  association  of 
cultured  and  refined  teachers,  was  doing  for  her  tl:e 
same  as  it  had  done  for  many  another  young  lady  of 
sterling  qualities  :  was  bringing  her  to  womanhood  with 
the  true  graces  and  polish  of  a  gentlewoman. 

By  sheer  pluck  she  bad  been  able  to  hold  out  during 
the  first  few  months.  Then  she  began  to  have  an  insight 
of  things — she  saw  the  real  meaning  of  it  all.  As  the 
year  had  progressed,  there  were  musicales,  society  meet- 
ings and  class  receptions.  She  rose  up.  did  her  best,  and 
met  every  occasion  and  enjoyed  it  all  to  the  fullest  ex- 
tent of  her  capacity. 

But  today  the  college  year  was  over,  and  the  com- 
mencement exercises  was  before  her.  Her  first  com- 
mencement! Tonight  her  heart  was  happy  and  full,  for 
all  were  now  her  friends,  and  they  honored  her.  She 
gave  a  last  touch  to  the  pins  in  her  braided  hair  before 
she  left  the  room.  The  tresses  of  gold  that  all  Blood 
Camp  knew  and  loved  so  weU  were  no  longer  hanging 
down  her  back.     But  they  were  done  and  arranged  in 


80  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

the  latest  style,  "beautifully,"  as  her  best  chum  had  ex- 
claimed with  emphasis  only  a  half  hour  before  when  she 
was  finishing  it.  She  took  another  look  in  the  mirror 
before  going  out.  The  soft  blue  dress  that  she  wore, 
made  from  some  soft  materials,  matched  the  big  blue 
eyes,  and  her  neck  and  throat  were  charming.  She  had 
made  that  pretty  dress  herself  during  extra  hours,  and 
she  was  truly  proud  of  it.  Drawing  on  a  glove  she 
walked  towards  the  door.  The  gloves  !  Oh,  yes !  Why, 
she  had  received  them  at  Christmas — as  a  present — 
from  some  friend  somewheres ;  yes,  a  friend  indeed — 
Paul  Waffmgton.  For  a  moment  she  stood  at  the  door, 
thinking.  She  wondered  would  he  know  her  now.  Would 
he  think  her  changed — would  he  be  pleased  with  her 
personal  appearance.  The  first  and  only  letter  that  she 
had  ever  received  from  him  had  been  sent  along  with 
those  gloves.  But  then  she  had  been  so  overjoyed  at  the 
sight  of  the  beautiful  gloves  that  the  note  had  been  hasti- 
ly read  and  put  away.  It  was  over  there  now  in  the  ex- 
cuse of  a  trunk  that  was  hers.  She  slowly  turned 
about — went  over  and  raised  the  lid  and  found  it.  Open- 
ing the  note  she  read : 

"Hazel  Green,  Ky.,  December  23,  19 — . 
Miss  Gena  Filson, 

Tusculum  College,  Tenn. 

My  Dear  Friend : — I  am  sending  you  by  today's 
mail  a  little  Christmas  remembrance.  Please  accept  it 
as  a  little  token  of  respect  and  esteem.  I  learn  that 
you  are  doing  well  in  Tusculurm  My  earnest  desire 
is  that  you  will  continue'^to  be  happy  in  your  work. 

"I  have  been  somewhat  delayed  in  returning  to  my 
headquarters  in  Knoxville  but  expect  to  return  soon. 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  81 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  pay  you  a  visit  at  the  college 
whenever  an  opportunity  is  afforded. 

"With  many  good  wishes  for  you,  I  beg  to  subscribe 
myself, 

"Your  friend, 

"Paul  Waffington." 

She  read  it  twice  over,  replaced  it  in  the  little  trunk 
and  let  down  the  lid.  Five  months  had  now  elapsed 
since  the  note  was  written,  yet  he  had  not  come.  The 
college  year  was  ended  and  commencement  was  now 
in  progress,  still  never  a  word.  But  Gena  Filson  had 
no  time  to  worry  over  such  matters.  She  was  happy 
in  her  new  world,  her  new  work;  then,  too,  she  had 
plenty  of  friends  to  claim  her  time  now — friends 
among  the  young  men  the  same  as  among  the  young 
ladies.  Therefore,  drawing  on  the  other  glove,  she 
went  quickly  out  and  shut  the  door. 

Gena  Filson  had  never  been  told  the  full  extent  of 
the  persistent  efforts  that  Paul  Waffington  had  made 
with  the  college  president  in  her  behalf.  She  knew 
nothing  of  the  frequent  letters  that  had  passed  be- 
tween the  college  president  and  Paul  Waffington 
solely  in  her  interest.  Then  the  flippant  and  less 
studious  ones  of  the  college  had  told  her,  that  "a  bird 
in  the  hand  was  worth  two  in  the  bush,"  hence  it  was 
beginning  to  lead  her  into  the  disposition  of  dismissing 
uncertainties  from  her  mind. 

"Dismiss  uncertainties — for  the  commencement  at 
least — and  enjoy  the  present  time  while  you  may,"  one 
had  said  to  her. 

In  the  gathering  shadows  of  evening  a  carriage 
rolled  up  and  stopped  before  the  college  gate.  Paul 
Wafiington  alighted  in  the  face  of  one  who  seemed 
to  be  the  center  of  attraction  with  a  group  of  young 


82  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

men.  It  was  a  young  man — this  center  of  attraction — 
a  "Mr.  Texas,''  as  he  heard  one  of  the  party  address 
him.  His  great  square  jaws  and  protruding  black 
eyes  loomed  up  under  a  large  derby  hat.  His  suit 
was  of  the  flaring  variety,  with  an  extremely  tight 
fitting  waist.  But,  above  all,  his  hose  with  their  white 
polka  dots  each  the  size  of  a  twenty-five  cent  piece 
could  not  fail  to  attract  attention,  and  he  carried  a 
cane.  Paul  Waffington  gave  him  a  fair  look  as  he 
went  by  and  passed  on  into  the  president's  office. 

When  finally  emerging  from  the  president's  office, 
he  met  a  merry  and  happy  throng  that  was  making 
its  way  to  the  college  chapel.  He  had  meant  to  send 
up  his  card  and  have  at  least  a  few  minutes  with 
Gena  Filson  before  the  exercises.  But  a  delayed 
train  had  made  great  inroads  upon  his  limited  time, 
hence  his  failure  to  do  so.  Notwithstanding  the 
failure  of  his  intentions  in  that  direction,  still  with 
an  air  of  some  satisfaction  he  climbed  the  steps  that 
led  to  the  college  chapel  and  was  ushered  to  a  seat 
near  the  center  of  the  hall. 

Everybody  was  happy  tonight !  Laughter  and  fun  ; 
the  swish  of  soft  skirts ;  the  smell  of  roses — all  told 
a  tale  of  happiness. 

Then  the  programme  commenced.  It  was  the  re- 
cital of  the  musical  department.  What !  yes,  the  same  ! 
Paul  Waffington  ran  his  eye  down  the  programme 
that  he  held — it  stopped  at  the  third  number.  He 
dropped  the  programme  to  his  knees  and  settled  back 
uneasilv  in  his  seat.  It  seemed  that  he  could  hardly 
abide  the  time,  when  she,  in  whom  he  had  always — 
from  the  very  first — had  been  so  deeply  interested, 
should  appear  upon  the  stage  and  render  her  part 
of  the  programme.  But  finally  the  old  president  came 
slowly  forward,  adjusted  his  nose-glasses  with  ever 


GEN  A    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  83 

so  much  care  and  precision,  and  read  from  the  pro- 
gramme. 

''The   next   number   on   the   programme   is 

instrumental,  by  Miss  Gena   Filson." 

But  who  was  this  coming  forward?  Gena  Filson 
was  the  name  on  the  programme.  Some  mistake 
sure,  thought  W'affington.  Too  bad  that  she  should 
be  cheated  out  of  her  number.     Some  mistake 

"Oh !"  he  suddenly  cried  out  half  aloud,  as  he  saw 
the  young  lady  come  forward  and  take  her  place  on 
the   piano   bench. 

He  sat  dazed.  Did  his  eyes  fail  him?  He  rubbed 
them  once,  then  looked  again.  She  finished  the  num- 
ber, turned  and  looked  the  audience  square  in  the  face 
and  left  the  stage.  The  hair!  The  eyes!  Yes,  it 
was  Gena  Filson  of  Blood  Camp.  But  oh,  so  different, 
so  changed,  so  beautiful ! 

He  heard  little  of  the  remaining  numbers  of  the 
programme,  lor  he  was  busy  Avitli  his  thoughts.  But 
by  and  by  the  music  stopped,  and  the  people  were 
crow^ding  the  rostrum  to  ofifer  congratulations.  Paul 
Waffington  made  ofif  with  the  others  in  the  direction 
of  the  rostrum,  to  offer  his  congratulations  and  to  ex- 
press his  pleasure  and  belief  in  the  ability  of  Gena 
Filson  to  succeed.  But  as  he  drew  near  he  saw  no 
other  than  the  square-jawed,  ill-dressed  "Mr.  Texas" 
standing  at  Gena  Filson's  side,  himself  acknowledging 
the  congratulations  of  her  friends  as  if  she  were  prop- 
erty individual.  He  stood  there,  showing  his  big  teeth, 
his  arms  almost  breaking  under  the  load  of  bundles, 
boxes  of  candy  and  flowers  that  he  himself  had  brought 
to  lavish  upon  her.  He  had  taken  her  by  the  arm, 
and  was  now  leading  her  away,  with  his  great  head 
poked  right  into  her  very  face.  Gena  Filson  dropped 
the  train  of  her  dress  as  she  turned  to  see  who  it  was 


84         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

that  had  spoken  to  her.  She  blushed  a  deep  red,  and 
her  lovely  blue  eyes  sparkled  as  bright  as  the  evening 
star  as  she  put  out  her  hand  and  simply  but  gently 
said: 

"Mr.  Waffington,  is  it  you!" 

"Accept  my  congratulations.  I  knew  that  it  v^as 
in  you  to  succeed.  I  arrived  too  late  to  see  you  before 
the  musicale,  and  must  go  now,  at  once.  Good-bye. 
I  knew  that  you  would  succeed.  Good-bye."  And 
before  she  had  time  to  present  her  friend,  "Mr.  Texas," 
Paul  Waffington  was  moving  away. 

"Ugh!"  growled  Mr.  Texas  holding  on  to  his  bun- 
dles.   "Ah,  do  you  know  him,  ah?" 

"Yes,  sir.     He  is  a  friend,"  the  answer  came  softly. 

"Ugh !"  he  again  exploded,  as  he  pulled  his  bundles 
after  him  as  he  went  through  the  door. 

That  night  Gena  Filson  sat  in  her  room  alone  and 
very  quiet,  after  all  the  lights  had  winked  out  on  the 
college  campus.  The  bundles  and  boxes  of  candy  and 
flowers  were  piled  about  untouched.  She  cared  not 
a  straw  for  candy  and  flowers  now.  Thoughts  were 
surging  about  in  her  troubled  mind,  reaching  out  be- 
yond such  trivial  things  as  candy  and  flowers.  Mov- 
ing over  to  her  window,  she  could  see  the  great  oaks 
on  the  campus  towering  up  in  the  moonlight.  Only  a 
few  moments  ago  she  had  sat  under  one  of  those  oaks 
and  listened  to  the  ejaculations  and  babblings  of  "Mr. 
Texas."  Yet  she  had  heard  but  little  of  what  he  had 
said  to  her  there.  The  while  she  had  found  herself 
continually  trying  to  recall  the  meeting  with  Paul 
Waffington  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  night  in  the  col- 
lege chapel.  Even  to  this  present  moment  she  found 
herself  unable  to  throw  it  off  her  mind.  But  Mr. 
Texas  was  gone  now,  so  was  Paul  Waffington.  Then 
suddenly  she  heard  the  lonely  whistle  of  a  locomotive 


GENA   OF    THE   APPALACHIANS         85 

coming  through  the  still  night  air  to  her  ears,  and 
she  knew  that  it  was  no  other  than  the  one  that  was 
carrying  Paul  Waffington  back  to  his  city  home  at 
lightning  speed. 

The  happy  faces  that  she  had  learned  to  know  and 
love  so  well  during  the  school  year  would  separate 
on  the  morrow,  each  going  back  to  home  and  friends. 
She,  too,  must  go.  Back  to  the  hills  and  Blood  Camp 
and  to  the  little  cabin  upon  the  side  of  the  mighty 
Snake  Gena  Filson  would  go.  For  a  long  time  she 
stood  at  the  open  window  and  looked  out  into  the 
night. 

"Yes,  I  did  very  wrong  not  to  thank  him.  I  should 
have  sent  a  note  expressing  my  appreciation  of  the 
pretty  gloves.  Why  didn't  I?  Why  didn't  I?"  she 
cried  as  she  stood  in  the  night,  wringing  her  hands. 
Then  hastily  she  laid  a  sheet  of  paper  on  the  window 
sill  and  scribbled  something  upon  it  in  the  moonlight, 
folded  it  and  laid  it  away  in  the  little  trunk. 

The  night  was  wearing  away.  Midnight  had  passed 
when  she  finally  lit  the  tallow  candle  that  she  was 
accustomed  to  use  in  emergencies  after  the  lights  had 
gone  out.  Then  began  the  packing  and  the  other  prep- 
arations for  the  going  away  on  the  morrow. 

There  were  college  colors  and  pennants  to  be  taken 
down  from  the  walls  and  carefully  packed.  There 
were  trinkets  and  knots  of  ribbons,  and  pictures  of 
dear  chums  that  were  taken  from  their  places  and 
packed  away  with  care.  Little  paper  fans,  that  were 
covered  with  scribblings  of  some  one  that  told  a  story 
of  a  happy  day.  They  were,  indeed,  souvenirs  that 
told  of  that  happy  college  life  (a  time  in  life  with 
many  without  responsibility),  souvenirs  that  tell  the 
story  of  many  a  happy  jaunt.  By  and  by,  the  last 
thing  was  put  into  its  place.     The  lid  on  the  little 


86         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

r 

old  trunk  refused  to  go  down  at  first,  but  in  the  end 
yielding  to  pressure  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 

Gena  Filson  lay  awake  for  a  long  time  upon  her 
pillow  that  night.  But  when  the  belated  messenger  of 
sleep  did  come  to  her,  he  found  her  tired  and  weary 
3^oung  mind  pondering  over  the  serious  problem :  If 
after  all,  in  the  end,  should  happiness  or  remorse  be 
hers? 


CHAPTER    XII 
Back  to  the  Old  Home  and  the  Hills 

Back  to  the  noisy  city  and  to  hard  work  went 
Paul  Waffington.  He  turned  over  to  the  paper  on  his 
desk  and  read  the  paragraph  again.  It  was  the  column 
of  local  items  from  Tusculum  College,  of  the  week 
preceding  the  commencement  of  that  institution  that 
was  absorbing  his  attention  in  the  paper  just  now. 

'']\Ir.  L.  Texas  won  the  tennis  pennant,"  he  read, 
"who  in  turn  in  a  beautiful  little  ceremony  presented 
it  to  his  partner,  ]^.Iiss  Gena  Filson."  Still  a  little 
further  down  the  column  another  paragraph  attracted 
his  attention.  The  paragraph  ended  by  saying:  "It 
was   a   beautiful   affair.      Those    who    stood   together 

were and   Miss   Gena   Filson  and  Mr.   L. 

Texas."  He  folded  the  paper  and  turned  again  to  his 
work,  with  the  firm  belief  in  his  heart  that  the  man 
who  tried  for  the  hand  of  Gena  Filson  had  an  aggres- 
sive and  formidable  rival. 

The  days  following  the  end  of  the  college  year 
were  inspiring  ones  for  the  humble  folks  of  the  village 
among  the  hills — Blood  Camp.  Slade  Pemberton  had 
duly  harnessed  his  mules  into  the  wagon,  driven  down 
to  the  little  station  and  met  the  new  collegian  and  her 
trunk. 

But  would  she  be  changed  much?  was  the  question 
that  was  upon  the  lips  of  all  Blood  Camp.  There  were 
free  expressions  all  around,  that  she  would  return 
from  college  "stuck  up."    And  what  w^as  still  another 


SS  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

ghost,  that  overshadowed  every  heart  in  the  village, 
was  the  avowal  of  Fen  Green  and  his  friends  that  she 
would  certainly  return  "proud."  But  at  length  the 
homecoming  was  over,  and  the  new  college  girl  re- 
turned to  the  cabin  upon  the  mountain  side  with 
Emeline  Hobbs  again  acting  as  her  housekeeper. 

The  first  few  days  after  her  return  the  little  cabin 
was  overflowing  with  callers.  Aged  women;  mothers 
with  bawling  babies  upon  their  hips,  old  men  and  all, 
came  to  see  and  pay  their  respects  to  Gena  Filson. 

**Jist  come  up  to  see  ye  and  take  a  good  look  at  ye 
an'  say  howdy,"  was  the  unanimous  greeting  of  all. 

"Yes,  she's  changed.  Grow'd  a  lot.  Prettier,  too ! 
an'  not  a  bit  stuck  up,"  was  the  final  verdict  of  all. 

But  there  was  one  certain  individual  who  had  been 
a  little  slow  in  going  to  the  cabin  to  visit  its  mistress 
since  she  had  returned,  and  that  one  was  Boaz  Honey- 
cutt.  Since  her  return,  Boaz  Honeycutt  had  been  quick 
to  perceive  the  difiFerence  in  the  dress  of  Gena  Filson 
and  his  own  ragged  clothes.  The  clothes  of  Gena 
Filson  were  better  now,  and  alas !  his  own — rags  they 
had  always  been— were  growing  worse  with  the  passing 
vears. 

However,  he  had  a  few  times  ventured  up  to  the 
cabin  and  had  been  each  time  cordially  received.  But 
each  succeeding  time  that  he  went  he  was  the  more 
convinced  that  there  was  something — something  that 
he  could  not  explain — fixing  a  gulf  between  their 
friendship.  It  bruised  and  crushed  his  boy  heart, 
lacerated  it  and  left  it  bleeding  and  sore.  The  power 
of  it  bore  down  upon  him  with  force,  and  left  his 
face  the  picture  of  despair.  The  only  other  friend 
that  he  cherished  next  to  Gena  Filson  was  Paul  Waf- 
fington.  And  now,  at  the  thought  of  his  name,  his 
broken  little  heart  went  out  over  the  high  mountain's 


GENA    OF   THE    APPALACHIANS  89 

fastnesses  towards  the  far-away  city  and  yearned  for 
his  comfort. 

Lately  he  had  taken  his  position  upon  the  grave- 
yard hill  to  watch. 

From  his  position  on  the  grass  plot  he  could  com- 
mand both  a  view  of  the  store  and  of  the  road  that 
led  into  the  gorge,  or  "out  into  the  big  world  som'ers," 
as  Emeline  Hobbs  had  one  day  told  him.  Sometimes 
he  would  get  up  from  his  place  on  the  grass  plot, 
and  as  a  diversion  pass  in  at  the  little  wicker  gate 
and  busied  himself  plucking  the  weeds  from  the 
mounds  of  two  certain  graves  there.  Then  perchance, 
if  shouts  came  up  from  the  store  a  hundred  yards 
away,  that  told  of  an  extra  good  story  that  was  being 
told  there  by  one  of  "the  boys,"  he  went  down  and 
heard  it  through  only  to  return  at  length  and  resume 
his   watch. 

He  had  gathered  up  in  his  mind  fragments  of  con- 
versation that  he  had  had  with  Gena  Filson  and  Paul 
Waffington,  about  college;  the  city  with  its  alluring 
charms,  its  street  cars,  steam  trains  and  all.  He 
sniffed  it  into  his  nostrils  again,  and  it  burnt  his  soul 
to  know  more  about  the  big  world  beyond  the  hills. 

It  was  growing  late  in  the  afternoon  of  Saturday, 
July  2,  1904.  Boaz  Honey cutt  lay  in  his  accustomed 
place  on  the  knoll,  stretched  at  full  length  in  the  grass 
with  his  hands  in  his  palms,  spelling  out  the  words 
on  a  paper  before  him.  Yes,  Boaz  Honeycutt  had  a 
father,  a  man  who  was  used  to  hard  toil,  a  lumberman, 
a  man  who  felled  the  trees  and  by  the  hardest  toil 
dragged  them  to  a  distant  market.  But  there  were 
seven  other  mouths  to  feed  in  the  little  shack  that 
Boaz  Honeycutt  called  home,  and  hence  gross  neglect 
had  been  the  lot  of  the  oldest  child  Boaz.    The  boy's 


90  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

school  clays  had  been  of  sufficient  length  to  allow  him 
to  hardly  read  and  no  longer. 

"Congress,  President  Roosevelt,  tariff,"  he  labori- 
ously spelled  out.  "Shucks !  I  never  seed  nothin' 
like  none  of  them  things !  Papers  ain't  fit  fur  nothin' 
"cept  to  wrap  calico  in  nohow,"  he  concluded,  brushing 
aside  the  paper  and  laying  his  head  down  in  the  fresh 
green   grass. 

The  rider  emerged  from  the  gorge,  rode  up  the  little 
hill  slowly  and  with  little  noise. 

"Hello!  Boaz,  is  that  you?"  called  out  Paul  Waf- 
fington. 

"Well,  I  wisht  I  may  drap  ded !"  shouted  the  boy, 
jumping  up  into  the  air  with  delight.  He  hurriedly 
made  a  cross  in  the  grass  with  his  right  foot,  spat 
into  the  center  of  it  five  times,  jumped  up  into  the 
air  again  and  bounded  towards  Waffington. 

"By  giggers,  Pm  glad  to  see  ye.  Git  down  an' 
lemme  take  your  hoss  an'  put  'im  up  an'  feed  'im. 
When  all  uv  'em  find  out  your  here  they'll  shore 
be  glad,  I  bet.  The  Sunday-skule's  agoin'.  Emeline's 
well,  Slade's  sellin'  more  goods  than  he  ever  did — 
no,  Pll  put  'im  up  myself — ten  ears  of  corn  and  hay? 
Well,  Pll  do  it  right,  by  giggers  I  will." 

On  Sunday  morning  the  little  cracked  bell  on  the 
school-house  rang  out  in  wheezen  tones,  warning  the 
people  that  the  Sunday-school  would  begin  an  hour 
earlier  than  was  the  custom.  The  founder  of  the 
Sunday-school  was  to  be  present,  and  Emeline  Hobbs 
wanted  to  get  a  fair  chance  to  show  off  the  gracious 
qualities  of  tiie  school  that  by  persistent  effort  she 
had  built  up.  She  vv^as  indeed  proud  of  her  Sunday- 
school — boldly  so — since  Gena  Filson  had  returned 
from  college  and  had  been   elected  vice-president  or 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  91 

assistant  superintendent  and  teacher  of  the  intermediate 
class. 

At  the  appointed  time,  Emeline  Hobbs  took  her 
place  at  the  front  of  the  room,  balanced  herself  on  the 
wooden  peg,  and  looked  at  the  little  audience  with  a 
grave  countenance.  Now  and  then  she  gave  a  quick 
jerk  at  the  white,  stiff  collar  that  was  fast  cutting 
off  circulation  from  her  neck.  Then  she  hopped  over 
and  arranged  the  'iittle  class"  on  the  left  side  of  the 
room.  Then  the  *'big  class"  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  After  settling  the  "intermedium  class"  on  the 
fight,  she  made  another  final  round  to  see  that  all 
was  ready  to  begin. 

"Sh s!   Sh !    You  Emmy!     Set  down,  Boaz! 

Git  ready,  Carrie !"  she  made  the  entire  command  in 
a  single  breath. 

"Turn  to  'Over  There'  in  your  song-books.  Git 
ready !"  Then  with  a  movement  of  both  arms  she  led 
off.  She  hopped  over  in  front  of  the  "big  class"  and 
stood  beating  the  air  with  her  arms  and  thumping 
the  floor  with  her  wooden  peg,  endeavoring  to  hurry 
up  those  who  were  miserably  dragging  behind.  Then 
she  swung  over  and  spurred  up  the  "little  class"  who 
were  piping  away  in  some  five  or  six  different  keys. 
Then  back  to  the  center  of  the  room  she  went,  and 
they  all  sang.  The  chorus  swelled  up  and  fairly  lifted 
the  roof,  and  the  blend  of  harmony  was  about  the 
same  as  the  blending  of  kerosene  and  water. 

Far  back  in  the  rear  two  or  three  good  mothers, 
with  crying  babies  swinging  to  and  fro  on  their  knees, 
were  piping  away  in  falsetto  voices,  coming  out  at 
least  a  line  behind  all  the  others.  But  it  was  singing. 
It  was  music — real  worship,  from  the  very  bottom  of 
hearts  of  Blood  Camp — and  methinks  He  who  con- 
trols the  destinies  of  all  must  have  heard. 


92         GENA    OF    THE   APPALACHIANS 

That  day's  session  of  the  Sunday-school  ended  in  a 
blaze  of  glory  with  Emeline  Hobbs,  and  she  went 
back  to  the  cabin  on  the  side  of  the  mighty  Snake 
with  her  heart  loving  everybody — even  Boaz  Honey- 
cutt  was  not  forgotten. 

But  the  glorious  Fourth  was  drawing  near,  and 
preparations  were  under  way  for  the  picnic  at  Blow- 
ing Rock.  Blood  Camp  did  not  understand  in  its 
fullest  meaning  the  day  we  celebrate.  They  had  heard 
little  indeed  of  the  great  cities  with  their  miles  of 
bunting,  and  the  flag  that  we  so  dearly  love  floating 
from  every  window  and  door  on  July  the  Fourth.  Of 
the  fireworks ;  the  great  military  pageants  and  the 
patriotic  speeches  from  ocean  to  ocean,  they  knew 
little.  But  Paul  Waffington  had  fittingly  made  men- 
tion of  it  in  the  Sunday-school,  and  the  outcome  of 
his  remarks  was  the  proposed  picnic  to  Blowing  Rock 
on  the  glorious  Fourth. 

The  morning  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  1904,  was  indeed 
glorious !  The  early  sun  had  found  the  lunch  ready 
and  tucked  away  in  baskets  and  pushed  back  under 
the  seats  in  Slade  Pemberton's  wagon.  There  were 
seats  in  the  wagon  for  a  party  of  eight.  Fen  Green 
sat  in  the  driver's  place  with  Boaz  Honeycutt  and  the 
three  Allisons  occupying  the  next  two  seats.  Paul 
Waffington  assisted  Gena  Filson  into  the  rear  seat  and 
was  himself  seated  with  her,  thereby  leaving  but  one 
unoccupied  seat  in  the  wagon,  and  that  by  the  side 
of  Fen  Green,  the  driver. 

"Attention  everybody !"  cried  Waffington,  standing 
up  in  the  wagon.  ''Miss  Hobbs  is  the  chaperon  of 
this  party,  and  rightly  belongs  to  her  the  first  seat 
by  the  driver."  Whereupon  Emeline  Hobbs  allowed 
herself  to  be  assisted  to  the  side  of  Fen  Green. 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS         93 

The  big,  gray  mules  fairly  flew  over  the  rocks,  and 
the  happy  party  laughed,  babbled  and  sang  snatches  of 
song  as  they  went.  The  way  led  under  the  tall  trees, 
where  the  shade  was  deep.  Then,  coming  out  on  the 
spur  of  the  mountain,  the  road  wound  in  and  out  of 
shallow  ravines  in  beautiful  turns.  Some  put  out  their 
hands  and  plucked  rhododendron  sprays  as  they 
bowled  along.  Stopping  before  a  large  clump  of  rho^j 
dodendrons  that  were  in  full  bloom,*  they  wove  gar- 
lands of  the  flowers,  decorated  the  bridles  and  harness 
and  resumed  their  journey.  Paul  Wafiington  plucked 
a  single  daisy  and  roguishly  fastened  it  in  the  hat  of 
Gena  Filson,  and  for  his  trouble  she  blushed  sweetly 
and  smiled  upon  him.  On  and  on  they  went  through 
the  crisp  morning  air,  finally  turning  into  the  neigh- 
boring village  of  Boone. 

Yes,  it  was  really  Boone!  a  town  named  in  honor 
of  Daniel  Boone.  Here  within  its  borders  was  the 
very  spot  where  the  great  pioneer  and  man  of  iron 
nerve  had  pitched  his  camp,  brought  down  the  needed 
game  with  his  rifle  from  the  wilderness  about  him, 
deftly  prepared  his  evening  meal,  and  went  to  his 
sleep  in  the  midst  of  the  red  man's  country,  with 
little  apparent  fear. 

"Three  cheers  for  Daniel  Boone!"  cried  Waffington, 
and  they  were  given  with  a  will  as  they  cleared  the 
village. 

A  long  and  beautiful  stretch  of  mountain  road  was 
now  before  them.  Acres  and  acres  of  full-blooming 
rhododendrons  lent  beauty  and  color  to  the  scene. 
On  the  left  water,  crystal  clear,  tumbled  down  over 


*At  this  altitude  (3000  to  4000  feet)  the  rhododendrons  bloom 
in  late  June  and  early  July,  instead  of  May  and  June,  as  in 
lower  altitudes. 


94  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

* 

the  rocks  and  fell  into  pebbled  bottomed  pools  below. 
The  cool  morning  breezes  coming  down  from  the 
mountain  tops  laden  with  the  invigorating  smell  of 
the  balsam  brought  shouts  of  joy  from  all. 

*'Oh  my  everlastin'  sweetterbacker !"  yelled  Boaz 
Honeycutt,  going  over  the  side  of  the  wagon  and  dis- 
appearing in  the  direction  from  which  they  had  just 
come. 

''What's  the  matter!"  all  cried  excitedly  and  in  the 
same  breath.  Paul  Waffington  was  climbing  out  of 
the  wagon  to  make  investigation  when  Boaz  was  seen 
coming  back  at  a  fast  trot. 

''Why,  Boaz,  what  is  the  matter?"  together  all 
cried  again. 

"Oh  nothin',"  replied  the  boy  climbing  into  his  seat. 
"But  you  doan't  git  Boaz  Honeycutt  to  pass  no  forks 
of  the  road  'thout  crossin'  an'  spitten'.  No  sire — ee ! 
It's  bad  luck.  Onst  I  had  a  stone-bruise  an'  a  sore 
toe  fur  two  year,  summer  an'  winter,  'account  not 
crossin'  an'  spitten'  when  passin'  the  forks  of  a  road. 
No  sire — ee,  you  needn't  expect  to  see  Boaz  Honey- 
cutt fail  to  cross  an'  spit  whin  he  comes  to  the  forks 
of  the  road  no  more'n  you  'spect  to  see  a  jay-bird 
awalkin'  on  crutches." 

The  next  turn  of  the  road  brought  the  party  out 
into  the  open  again.  The  hot  July  sun  came  down, 
and  Emeline  Hobbs  moved  uneasily  in  her  seat. 

"Gee,  but  I'm  dry!"  she  finally  bawled  out. 

"What  did  you  say,  Miss  Hobbs?"  inquired  Paul 
Waffington. 

"I'm  dry,"  she  again  bawled  out  at  him  over  her 
shoulder.  "I  salted  the  gravy  too  much  this  mornin'. 
Gee,  but  I'm  dry — want  water,"  she  finished. 

"Oh!     You're  thirsty.     Well,  here  is  a  house,  and 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  <^- 

a  spring  too.     We  shall  all  have  some  water  here," 
was  Waffington's  reply. 

Fen  Green,  the  driver,  brought  the  wagon  to  a  stand. 
Paul  Waffington  got  out  of  the  wagon,  jumped  the 
fence  and  ran  down  the  little  path  in  the  direction  of 
the  spring. 

"Good  morning,  madam,"  he  said  as  he  lifted  his  hat 
and  bowed  to  the  lady  standing  with  her  pailful  of 
water  near  the  spring. 

''Does  this  spring  belong  to  you,  madam?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"Yes,  sir." 

''Well,  if  you  please,  madam,  we  would  like  to  get 
some  water  for  the  ladies  of  our  party." 

"All  right,"  came  the  reply.  "There's  a  gourd  hangin' 
up  there  on  that  stick,  you  can  take  'em  some  water 
in  it,  I  guess." 

"Fine  spring  you  have  here,  fine  farm,  too,  and 
plenty  of  everything  growing  on  it  too.  Your  hus- 
band must  be  a  great  worker,  madam,"  he  ventured 
to   say. 

"He's  dead,"  she  simply  said.  "He  died  las'  month, 
an'  left  me  and  the  children  here  to  do  everything." 

"Too  bad,  too  bad !"  he  said  as  he  looked  at  her 
in  a  kind  and  benevolent  way. 

"Yes,  I  wouldn't  have  minded  it  much,"  she  called 
nut  after  hirti  as  he  went  up  to  the  road,  "if  it  'ed 
a  happened  atter  the  crops  wuz  gathered." 

The  little  company  in  the  wagon  had  heard  what 
the  woman  had  said,  and  giggled.  Paul  W^afifington 
saved  his  ovv-n  face  with  the  blowing  of  his  nose  in  his 
handkerchief.  But  Boaz  Honeycutt  swelled  up  to  the 
daneer  line,   exploded,  and  said : 

"Well,  I  wisht  I  mav  die!" 


CHAPTER    XIII 
The  Passing  of  the  Clouds 

On  the  very  top  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  over  against 
Mt.  Mitchell  itself,  the  highest  peak  of  the  Appala- 
chian system,  nestles  the  little  village  of  Blowing 
Rock.  The  distinction  of  being  a  great  summer  resort 
and  at  the  same  time  boasting  the  highest  altitude  of 
any  town  in  the  Appalachian  system  belongs  to  Blow- 
ing Rock.  A  town  of  some  five  hundred  inhabitants, 
with  six  or  seven  summer  hotels  and  long  strings  of 
summer  cotfages,  its  population  is  easily  doubled 
twice  over  during  the  hot  summer  season,  by  the  rich 
of  the  north  and  east,  and  the  well-to-do  from  the 
south.  The  northerner  and  southerner  meet  here  for 
a  month's  rest,  not  forgetting  (albeit  they  come  for 
rest)  to  find  time  enough  in  which  to  exchange  a 
few  shares  of  cotton-mill  stock  of  the  South  for  a  few 
shares  of  shoe-factory  stock  of  the  East. 

The  artist,  too,  is  found  in  Blowing  Rock.  He 
comes  and  finds  both  rest  and  profit.  He  walks  out 
upon  the  great  rock — the  Blowing  Rock  itself — which 
projects  horizontally  out  into  space  at  the  very  apex 
of  the  Blue  Ridge,  and  looks  out  into  the  very  coun- 
tenance of  the  great  Appalachian  system  of  moun- 
tains. He  sees  just  in  front  of  him  Mt.  Mitchell  itself,  in 
all  of  its  midsummer  glory.  To  the  right  he  beholds 
Grandfather  Mountain,  the  old  man  reclining  in  silent 
sleep  beneath  sapphire  skies — his  aged  head  pillowed 
upon  the  everlasting  piles  of  stone,  and  his  couch  draped 
in  summer's  mantle  of  emerald  green.    Then  thousands 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS  97 

of  feet  down  he  beholds  the  plains  of  the  valleys  below 
stretching  away,  beyond  the  vision  of  his  eyes,  on  into  the 
endless  cotton-fields  of  the  South. 

He  has  beheld  visions  before.  But  this  is  sublime! 
From  Tofty  crags  and  peaks  he  has  many  a  time  looked 
upon  all  nature,  but  here  he  is  overcome  by  matchless 
beauty.  He  snatches  up  his  brush,  and  under  the 
inspiration  the  daubs  of  hard,  cold  paint  begin  to 
warm  on  the  canvas,  and  resolve  themselves  into 
green  valleys  and  peaks  and  shadows,  a  picture  of  the 
truth. 

Into  this  same  Blowing  Rock — not  the  Blowing 
Rock  on  the  page  of  a  book — but  the  Blowing  Rock 
of  reality,  the  little  picnic  party  from  Blood  Camp 
came  bowling  along,  past  the  rows  of  summer  cot- 
tages and  drew  up  at  the  great  rock  itself. 

"Oh,  how  beautiful !"  cried  Gena  Filson.  "Oh,  how 
grand !  And  the  great  mountains,  how  dearly  I  love 
them  r 

The  wagon  was  stopped  under  the  trees,  and  the 
mules  were  made  comfortable.  Then  came  recon- 
noitering,  exploration  and  the  gathering  of  flowers 
and  ferns.  Going  to  the  wagon  Paul  Waffington 
returned  with  a  package  in  his  hand,  that  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  the  city.  All  were  inquisitive 
to  know  its  contents. 

"Giant  firecrackers,"  he  said.  "Glorious  Fourth ! 
Let  us  throw  a  few  over  the  rock  and  celebrate." 
Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  tore  open  the  pack- 
age, touched  a  flame  to  the  fuse  of  one  of  the  giant 
crackers  and  threw  it  over  the  rock  with  all  his  might. 
It  went  down,  down,  down  through  space — then 
boom !  came  the  terrific  report,  and  all  screamed  with 
delight. 

"Oh,  do  it  again !"  begged  Gena   Filson,  clapping 


98  GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

her  hands.  Suddenly  she  arose,  ran  to  the  wagon, 
drew  from  her  basket  a  silk  flag  and  came  running 
back,  waving  it  and  exclaiming: 

"The  glorious  Fourth  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes! 
Hurrah,  hurrah!" 

"Hurrah  I"  came  the  thundering  rejoinder  from  all. 

During  the  exciting  moments  that  followed,  the 
giant  crackers  became  scattered  on  the  ground.  In- 
advertently the  chaperon.  Miss  Emeline  Hobbs,  sat 
down  among  them.  A  match  was  struck  and  went  to 
Fen  Green's  pipe,  then  to  the  ground.  In  a  wink  it 
touched  the  protruding  end  of  the  fuse  of  a  giant 
cracker  on  which  sat  Miss  Emeline  Hobbs.  Before 
any  one  could  give  warning — boom !  went  the  report 
of  the  great  explosion,  and  up  into  the  air  went 
Emeline  Hobbs,  then  down  again  on  to  the  ground 
with  a  thump.  But,  thanks  to  her  lucky  star,  she 
was  unharmed,  save  a  faint  through  fright. 

Cold  water  and  persistent  rubbing  soon  brought 
her  again  to  normal  conditions.  With  her  head  still 
pillowed  on  Paul  Waffington's  coat,  that  he  had  shed 
in  a  twinkle  and  made  into  a  pillow  for  the  occasion 
she  refused  to  get  up  until  she  had  propounded  the 
following  question : 

"Oh,  where  am  I?  Am  I  in  the  valley  or  still  on  the 
rock?" 

"You'd  better  be  a  leetle  more  careful  what  you're 
asettin'  down  on  nixt  time,  Emeline,"  said  Boaz.  "Ef 
you'd  abin  jist  a  leetle  closer  to  the  edge  of  the  rock 
whin  thet  thing  busted,  you'd  a  hit  a  farm  'bout  a  mile 
below  here,  I  reckon." 

That  was  too  much  for  her — and  from  Boaz  Honey- 
cutt.  It  fired  her  up.  She  jumped  up  and  shook  her 
fist  at  the  boy.  But  when  Waffington  put  out  his 
hand  in  surprise  she  resumed  her  normal  state  and 


GENA   OF   THE   APPALACHIANS         99 

stood  in  her  place  with  the  rest  and  watched  the 
giant  crackers  go  down  over  the  rock  and  explode. 

Dinner  time !  By  a  rustic  seat  and  under  a  bower 
of  rhododendrons  the  dexterous  hands  of  Gena  Filson 
led  the  other  ladies  of  the  party  in  spreading  the 
dinner.  It  was  indeed  a  feast,  a  feast  on  the  moun- 
tain-top. There  were  pickles  and  slaw ;  chicken  salad 
and  cold  ham ;  stuffed  eggs  and  many,  many  sweets. 
Fen  Green  and  Boaz  Honeycutt  tried  a  little  of  all  and 
pronounced  it  all  good.  When  dinner  was  over,  the 
baskets  went  back  to  their  places  under  the  seats  in 
the  wagon.  The  mules  had  just  been  given  their 
corn  and  hay  when  the  wheels  of  an  approaching 
carriage  was  heard.  The  carriage  rolled  up  and 
stopped  a  few  yards  distant  from  the  party. 

''Ah,  how  do  you  do,  ah,  Miss  Filson.  Ah,  may  I 
speak  with  you  a  moment,  ah?"  It  was  no  other  than 
"Mr.  L.  Texas"  himself,  and  Paul  Waffington  ground 
his  teeth. 

''Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Texas,"  said  Gena 
Filson,  going  over  to  the  carriage  and  offering  her 
hand. 

Waffington  was  dazed.  His  heart  nearly  failed  him. 
What  did  it  all  mean?  What  did  he  mean  by  thrust- 
ing himself  into  the  happiness  of  this  little  picnic 
party?  Did  she  know  that  he  was  coming?  Why, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  she  must  have  known.  Why, 
then,  had  she  not  told  him? 

She  came  back.  Walking  slowly  she  finally  stopped 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  party  and  said : 

*T  beg  that  you,  Mr.  Waffington,  and  the  others 
will  excuse  me  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Why,  certainly^  certainly.  Miss  Filson,"  he  replied, 
almost  against  his  will. 


100        GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

She  returned  to  the  carriage  and  was  assisted  in 
by  Mr.  Texas  and  disappeared. 

Forty-five  minutes  had  elapsed  when  the  carriage 
again  appeared,  and  Gena  Filson  alighted  and  bade 
Mr.  Texas  good-bye. 

"Well,  by  giggers!  Who  is  thet  jug-headed  dude, 
Genie?"  demanded  Boaz,  as  she  came  up. 

'*Boaz!"  intervened  Waffington.  "You  should  al- 
ways speak  politely  of  gentlemen — of  strangers." 

Then  the  party  separated  for  a  time.  Boaz  and 
Fen  Green  went  off  in  the  direction  of  one  of  the 
big  hotels,  while  the  three  Allisons  and  Emeline 
Hobbs  chose  another  direction.  Paul  Waffington  was 
left  in  the  company  of  Gena  Filson.  He  sat  away 
out  on  the  projecting  rock  with  his  feet  hanging  over 
the  edge,  looking  out  on  the  matchless  scene  before 
him. 

"Oh,  is  it  not  grand!"  ventured  Gena  Filson. 

"Indeed  it  is  a  grand  sight  to  behold,"  calmly  re- 
plied Waffington. 

He  broke  ofif  a  bit  of  stick  and  threw  it  over  the 
rock.  At  first  it  poised  in  the  strong  breeze  that  came 
up  from  the  valley  below,  but  finally  tilted  on  end 
and  began  slipping  away  thousands  of  feet  downward, 
towards  the  valley.  He  mechanically  threw  out  an- 
other stick  in  the  air  and  raised  his  head  to  speak. 

"Doesn't  the  wind  bear  it  up  beautifully?"  she  in- 
tercepted him. 

"Yes,  rather,"  came  the  quiet  reply.  "But  I  must 
confess  that  it  reminds  me  of  insincere  friendship. 
There  are  those  in  this  big  world  who  are  treacherous, 
like  the  wind  with  the  stick.  They  bear  us  up  beau- 
tifully at  first,  then  upon  their  strength  we  begin 
to  build;  but  in  the  end,  they  betray  the  trust  and 
dash  us  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  below." 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS        101 

"But  are  my  friends  like  that,  Mr.  Waffington?" 
she  painfully  asked. 

"Well,  I'm  not  a  judge.  I  don't  know  who  are 
your  best  friends." 

"Well,  may  I  ask,  is  your  friendship  like  the  stick 
and  the  wind,  Mr.  Waffington?" 

"No,  Gena,"  he  said  quietly.  Then  after  a  long 
silence  he  threw  the  remaining  stick  that  he  held  in 
his  hand  far  back  on  the  grass  and  finished,  "Once 
a  friend,  always  a  friend  with  me — at  least  nothing 
less."  Then  his  heart  cried  out  and  begged  him  to 
tell  her  all,  but  his  voice  failed  to  do  his  bidding. 

"Well,  I  wisht  I  may  die,  ef  I  didn't  think  I'd  slip 
upon  on  you  all  an'  ketch  you  atalkin'  courtin'  talk, 
but  I  didn't,  I  reckon,"  piped  Boaz  Honeycutt,  as  he 
bounded  out  from  behind  a  clump  of  rhododendrons. 

They  both  blushed,  and  she  smiled  as  her  eyes  met 
Waffington's  and  said : 

"Why,   Boaz!" 

"All  aboard!"  bawled  out  Emeline  Hobbs;  "all 
aboard  for  Boone  an'  Blood  Camp — all  aboard!" 

The  wagon  was  made  ready  for  the  homeward  trip. 
Once  more  Waffington  led  the  little  company  out 
upon  the  Blowing  Rock,  and  Gena  Filson  waved  the 
silk  flag  as  Waffington  commanded: 

"Three  cheers  for  the  glorious  Fourth." 

The  cheers  went  ringing  out  into  space  with  a  roar 
that  all  but  awoke  the  aged  grandfather  from  his  long 
sleep  on  his  green-mantled  couch  in  the  distance. 

The  sun  was  still  an  hour  high  when  the  party  in 
high  spirits  returned  to  Blood  Camp.  At  the  store 
they  rose  up  in  the  wagon,  gave  three  last  cheers  for 
the  glorious  Fourth,  and  disbanded. 

"Fust  Foth  of  July  I  ever  seed,  an*  I  wisht  I  may 


102        GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

die,  ef  we  aint  agoin'  to  have  one  next  year  again,"  de- 
clared Boaz  Honeycutt  as  he  went  off  in  the  direction 
of  his  home,  to  tell  his  sisters  and  brothers  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  day. 

Paul  Waffington  led  Gena  Filson  up  the  mountain 
side  to  her  cabin  home  and  was  saying  good-bye. 
He  was  going  back  to  his  city  home  on  the  morrow. 
He  had  experienced,  after  all  he  thought,  the  best 
day  of  his  life.  But  at  the  thoughts  of  going  away 
his  heart  grew  heavy. 

"But  won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Waffington?  It  is 
early  yet,"  Gena  Filson  gently  said.  "We  can  sit  here 
in  the  fresh  evening  air,  here  on  these  boards,"  she 
finished. 

"Thank  you,  I  will  sit  down,"  and  seated  himself 
by  her  side. 

He  looked  upon  the  lovely  face  of  Gena  Filson  in 
the  bright  evening  sun,  and  reasoned  with  his  heart 
again.  Tut!  tut!  she  belonged  to  another.  But  how 
did  he  know  so  much?  He  had  failed  to  learn  the 
truth  while  at  Blowing  Rock.  Why  had  he  not  the 
speech  to  say  the  things  that  were  in  his  heart  now? 
Why,  Paul  Waffington  could  recall  the  time  when, 
in  college  debate,  he  had  stood  upon  the  floor  and 
fearlessly  battled  against  the  best.  Scores  of  times 
he  had  stood  before  public  audiences  and  juggled 
with  words  and  themes  without  embarrassment.  Yes, 
he  had  stood  in  the  very  face  of  death,  so  far  as  he 
knew — not  a  rod  distant  from  where  he  now  sat — 
and  shot  out  his  fist  into  the  face  of  old  Jase  Dillen- 
burger,  expecting  nothing  but  death  in  the  end — and 
had  done  it  all  without  a  tremor.  But  how  was  it 
now,  that  a  w^oman,  a  daughter  of  the  simple  hills 
could  without  a  single  command  hold  him  dumb? 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS        103 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  away  off  down  the 
mountain  side  as  he  turned  it  all  over  in  his  mind 
agam.  Suppose  that  Gena  Filson  was  the  daughter  of 
Lucky  Joe.  She  was  now  his  equal.  She  had  already 
proven  that  she  had  a  wonderful  brain  capacity ;  that 
she  could  succeed,  he  had  said  so  to  her  himself  at 
the  college.  Suppose  that  her  father  had  been  a 
bandit — a  moonshiner.  Many  another  have  yielded  to 
the  same  temptation.  But  still  there  remained  with 
her  the  memories  and  the  sweet  benediction  of  a 
kind  and  gentle  mother.  A  mother  who,  when  her 
heart  was  young,  came  into  the  hills  with  good  blood 
in  her  veins,  of  sterling  character,  polished  and  re- 
fined. 

But  after  all,  he  thought  that  he  could  have  been, 
perhaps,  long  since  mated  to  his  mother's  choice, 
Imogene.  She  was  of  his  station  in  life,  he  had  been 
told.  Culture,  education,  refinement,  jewels  and 
money  were  hers.  But  beyond  the  reach  of  the  jewels 
and  moneys  Paul  Waffington's  heart  reached  out  and 
yearned  for  the  true  love  of  his  heart,  and  he  finds 
it  in  Gena  Filson  by  his  side. 

He  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  woman  at  his  side 
again,  and  it  was  fair.  She  was  born  and  bred  in  that 
congenial  southern  clime,  among  the  beautiful  green 
hills,  where  crystal  streams  purl  and  ripple  on  forever; 
where  sweet  song-birds  dwell;  where  acres  of  wild 
flowers  come  forth  in  summer  time,  only  for  bees  to 
plunder  and  birds  to  swing  and  sway  in  tuneful  song.  **I 
must  know  all,"  he  cried  to  himself,  and  his  voice 
yielded  to  his  heart's  desire. 

''It's  been  seven  years  since  I  first  saw  you  there 
in  the  snow,  Gena.  You  were  thirteen  then.  And — 
then — old  Jase  managed  to  get  you,  and  shifted  the 


104        GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

hard  burdens  from  his  own  shoulders  to  yours.  And 
then  1  came  and  saw  you  burning  up  there  on  the 
bunk  with  fever.  Then  I  took  you  away,  and,  well, 
I  thought  I  was  doing  right!"  He  paused  and  looked 
away  to  the  west,  and  saw  the  sun  sinking  down  into 
fathomless  seas  of  purple  and  gray.  Then  he  busied 
himself  pushing  the  stem  of  a  daisy  into  the  worm- 
holes  in  the  board  on  which  they  sat,  as  he  went  on, 
"And  then  Jase  went  to  prison." 

"Yes,  and  it  saved  us  both,  Paul."  Her  hands  flew 
to  her  lips  and  held  them,  as  if  they  had  allowed 
something  that  was  terrible  to  pass  them.  **Oh,  for- 
give me,  forgive  me,"  she  cried.    "I  didn't " 

"That's  it,  that's  it,  Gena.  For  seven  years  I  have 
yearned  for  you  to  simply  say  Paul.  I  go  away  to 
morrow,  Gena,  and  I  just  as  well  have  it  out  and  be 
done  with  it.  The  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  you,  it 
was  there  in  the  snow  and  the  storm ;  I  loved  you,  and 
I  love  you  still.  Tonight  I  want  to  know  all.  Tell 
me,  Gena,  will  you  be  my  wife:" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers  as  he  finished.  In  the 
short  interval  of  time  his  heart  seemed  to  be  dropping, 
dropping,  dropping  down  through  fathomless  depths 
of  space.  The  sun  was  gone  now.  But  the  big  blue 
eyes  at  his  side  looked  out  over  the  mountains  and 
watched  the  purple  clouds  with  their  rims  of  gold. 
Then  they  turned  their  vision  upon  him,  and  welled 
up  with  tears  as  she  whispered: 

^'Yes." 
/  Under  the  starry  dome  of  night  he  gently  drew  her 
/within   his  arms,  and  there,   together,  they   finished 
I   the    bridge    of    love  that    spanned    the    present    and 
Veeached  into  the  future,  that  thitherland. 


CHAPTER    XIV 
'      Love  Seeks  Its  Own 

But  few,  indeed,  ever  learned  the  truth  of  what  it 
cost  Gena  Filson  to  withstand  the  persistent  and  irri- 
tating attentions  of  her  would-be  friend  and  admirer, 
Mr.  L.  Texas,  during  her  second  college  year.  He 
had  approached  her  heart,  traversing  every  conceiv- 
able avenue;  yes,  he  had  tried  her  very  spirit  as  well 
and  her  heart. 

He  was  rich,  the  girls  had  told  her.  He  had  diamonds. 
What  feminine  hand  had  not  longed  and  wished  for 
a  diamond?  But  through  all  the  consuming  fire  the 
heart  of  Gena  Filson  never  failed  her,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  second  college  year  she  went  back  to  her  native 
hills  carrying  her  certificate  from  the  department  of 
music  with  dignity,  to  make  good  the  day  of  her 
promise. 

It  was  a  certain  bright  afternoon  in  October  that 
Slade  Pemberton  gave  away  the  little  bride  in  the 
cabin  to  Paul  Waffington.  Slade  Pemberton  had  been 
her  guardian  during  these  latter  years,  and  he  had 
done  his  part  by  her,  much  better  than  had  been  ex- 
pected of  him.  And  as  he  stood  up  in  the  cabin  and 
gave  the  sweet  little  bride  away,  he  could  not  but 
believe  that  she  was  passing  into  the  hands  of  the 
noblest  man  that  ever  lived. 

Then  came  the  going  away.  Aye,  the  tears  that 
were  shed  on  that  October  afternoon!  Not  tears 
alone    from    the    eyes,    but    tears    from    human    hearts 


106        GENA    OF    Tl^E    APPALACHIANS 

as  well,  were  those  that  Blood  Camp  shed,  as  the  bride 
slipped  away  with  the  man  she  loved. 

Into  the  great  and  mighty  city  with  its  whir  and 
clank  of  machinery,  and  its  passing  throngs,  Paul  Waf- 
fington  took  his  bride.  Up  marble  steps  and  into  re- 
ception rooms  of  friends  he  led  her,  presenting  his 
beautiful  young  wife  without  the  shadow  of  a  fear 
of  reproach  from  anyone. 

A  half  dozen  years  of  happy  married  life  passed 
quickly  by  with  Paul  Waffington  and  his  beautiful  young 
wife.  Throughout  the  changing  years,  the  young  wife 
stood  firmly  by  the  side  of  the  man  she  loved  and  helped 
him  to  earn  the  money  that  was  to  build  their  home  nest, 
and  now  the  funds  were  all  in  hand,  and  their  happiness 
was  full. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  so  sweet  to  dwell  in  our  own  dear  home, 
Paul,  and  with  you!  You  have  toiled  so  long  and  so 
hard,"  she  finishing  stroking  his  hair. 

"Yes,  Gena,  dear,  it  shall  be  the  sweetest  nest  in  all 
the  world,"  came  the  reassuring  reply. 

"Now,  I  think  we  can  afford  to  see  the  Exposition, 
Paul,  dear.  And  this  is  the  initial  Exposition,  too,"  she 
excitedly  exclaims. 

Under  the  arch  of  the  great  Appalachian  exposition 
he  led  her.  It  was  now  in  all  of  its  glory — running 
at  its  best — was  this  great  exposition  in  his  home  city. 
Under  the  glare  of  millions  of  electric  lights  and  in 
the  din  and  thunderous  roars  of  rival  performing 
shows  they  were  happy.  There  were  assembled  the 
stupendous  and  gorgeous  pyrotechnical  displays  of 
the  world,  the  exhibits  from  the  most  wonderful 
mountain  country  in  America.  There  were  the  air- 
ships and  the  races  by  day.    There  was  the  moonshine 


GEN  A    OF    THE    AFPALACHIANS        107 

still!  Gena  had  seen  a  moonshine  still  before,  but  she 
saw  it  all  again  and  was  happy. 

Long  before  the  wheels  of  the  great  exposition  had 
run  down  and  stopped,  Paul  Waffington  and  his  bride 
were  established  in  their  own  little  home  in  a  quiet  corner 
of  the  city,  there  to  dwell  in  mutual  love. 

But  each  succeeding  summer  the  thoughtful  Waf- 
fington carried  his  bride  back  to  the  village  of  the  hills, 
and  they  spent  their  vacations  in  the  cabin  on  the  side 
of  the  mighty  Snake.  A  piano  and  new  furnishings 
found  their  way  into  the  little  cabin.  A  porch  was 
added  to  the  front  and  a  dexterous  hand  had  planted 
jessamine  and  wisteria  vines  at  the  corners.  When 
each  succeeding  vacation  period  was  over.  Uncle 
Lazarus  was  appointed  caretaker  of  the  house  during 
the  long  winters,  and  the  following  summer  made 
ready   for  the  coming  of  the  master  and  mistress. 

And  now,  kind  reader,  let  us  together  turn  over  the 
leaf  and  take  a  look  at  the  last  picture  in  this  humble 
narrative. 

Six  years  have  now  rolled  their  cycles  into  the 
past  since  Gena  Filson  became  a  bride  and  went  away 
to  her  city  home.  And  with  the  passing  of  the  years, 
many  a  change  have  been  wrought  in  the  village  of 
the  hills — Blood  Camp.  Fen  Green  long  since  offered 
his  heart  and  farm  to  Emeline  Hobbs,  and  that  in- 
dividual promptly  accepted.  Notwithstanding,  the 
new  duties  of  wife  that  devolved  upon  her,  she  still 
continues  to  hold  on  to  the  helm  of  the  Sund;  y-school 
with  a  firmer  grasp  than  before.  Over  near  Slade 
Pemberton's  store  stands  a  little  church  now.  It 
stands  with  its  steeple  pointing  into  the  blue  above, 
a  monument  to  Paul  Waffington  and  the  faithful 
Emeline  Hobbs.    On  Sunday  mornings  its  bell  rings 


108        GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS 

out  from  the  steeple,  proclaiming  that  the  days  of 
moonshining  are  over  in  Blood  Camp,  and  calling  the 
people  down  from  the  hills  to  worship  God. 

The  mark  of  Father  Time  is  beginning  to  tell  upon 
some  of  the  fathers  of  Blood  Camp  now.  And  the 
children  of  but  a  few  years  agD  are  now  young  men 
and  young  women.  The  strokes  of  the  blacksmith's 
sledge  upon  his  anvil  in  the  shop  are  growing  fainter 
now  and  farther  between.  And  like  the  aged  sledge 
its  master  has  swung  for  years,  the  blacksmith,  too,  is 
growing  old. 

Summer  is  now  over  again.  The  first  day  of  Sep- 
tember is  come,  and  Paul  Waffington  and  his  little 
family  are  making  ready  to  return  to  their  city  home. 

In  the  heat  of  the  summer  they  had  journeyed 
hither,  from  the  grime  and  smoke  of  the  torrid  city, 
and  in  many  a  jaunt  among  the  hills  they  have  been 
refreshed  in  body  and  soul.  Now  they  would  return 
thither,  with  a  more  elastic  step  and  a  double  portion 
of  sweetness  that  will  not  fail  to  permeate  the  suc- 
ceeding years. 

The  carriage  moves  slowly  away  from  the  store. 

'*Good-bye  Emeline,  Fen,  Daddy  Slade,  Aunt  Mina 
and  all,"  called  Gena.  "Good-bye,  Boaz,  and  remem- 
ber, that  you  are  to  come  to  live  with  us  in  the  city 
at  Christmas.    Good-bye." 

The  human  hearts  of  all  Blood  Camp  again  welled 
up  with  sadness  and  they  found  it  hard  to  say  "good- 
bye" in  cheerful  tones. 

When  the  chestnut  grove  on  the  hill  was  reached, 
the  carriage  stopped.  Uncle  Lazarus  stood  at  the 
wicket  gate.  Paul  Waffington  led  the  way  through 
the  gate  and  stopped  before  two  well-kept  mounds 
that  lay  side  by  side.  He  removed  his  hat  and  looked 
upon    the   mounds   with    reverence.     Then    taking   a 


GENA    OF    THE    APPALACHIANS        109 

wreath  from  the  hand  of  little  C aged  four,  h« 

placed   it   upon   the   mound   to  his   right.    A   second 

wreath  he  took  from  the  tender  hands  of  little  H , 

aged  two,  and  silently  laid  it  upon  the  mound  to  hif 
left. 

"Whose  graves  are  these,  papa?"  inquired  little 
C ,  aged  four. 

"They  are  the  graves  of  your  grandfather  and  your 
grandmother,  my  son,"  he  replied  breaking  the  long 
silence. 

He  took  the  youngest  child  in  his  arms  as  he  led 
the  way  over  to  a  neglected  corner  of  the  graveyard. 
Before  a  grave  of  large  dimensions  that  showed  much 
neglect  they  paused.  The  little  family  stood  together 
and  looked  upon  the  mound  a  long  time.  Then  the 
wife  and  mother  went  forward,  plucked  away  some 
weeds  and  laid  upon  the  mound  the  wreath  she  car- 
ried. Paul  Waffington  stooped  and  parted  the  weeds 
and  glanced  at  the  marble  slab  that  bore  the  simple 
name : 

JASON  DILLENBURGER. 

As  the  little  company  went  out  the  black  man  put 
out  his  bony  hand  and  said  good-bye.  He  closed  the 
wicket  gate  and  the  carriage  moved  away.  The  others 
at  the  store  had  looked  upon  the  scene  with  aching 
hearts.  For  the  seventh  time  Boaz  Honeycutt  sat  in 
his  rags  on  the  store  platform  and  saw  the  idol  of 
his  heart  disappear  over  the  hill.  The  muscles  in  his 
face  twitched  as  he  sat  in  his  rags  and  strained  his 
eyes  at  the  last  sight  of  the  carriage.  Then  suddenly 
a  lady's  hand  was  thrust  out  of  the  carriage  waving 
a  handkerchief.  Again  the  boy's  face  twitched  with 
deep  emotion,  for  he  knew  that  the  hand  was  the 
hand  of  Gena  of  the  Appalachians. 

(The  End) 


( 


